


Mycroft Never Forgot

by Jade56



Series: Mycroft's Secrets and Sherlock's Memories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Heavy Angst, Imagined Sibling Incest, M/M, Mind Palace, Missing Scenes, Mycroft Loves Sherlock, Mycroft POV, Mycroft's Mind Palace, Pining, References to Drug Use, Sexual Content, Sherlock Spoilers Series 1-4, Sherlock's Past
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-09-25 18:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 21,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9837152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jade56/pseuds/Jade56
Summary: When Sherlock was a child, he experienced a great tragedy. Being unable to cope, he buried his memories of the incident and replaced them with a better story.There was more, though. After that tragedy occurred, Sherlock had shared many sweet, reassuring moments with his brother. He had spent many long evenings enveloped by Mycroft’s arms as Mycroft softly spoke to him and comforted him. These memories, too, had to be buried and twisted, because the feelings that had developed between them were too strong and too inappropriate for brothers to have.Mycroft, however, never forgot any of it.





	1. Archenemies (A Study in Pink)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gingerdoe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerdoe/gifts).



> This story will go through all of the Sherlock canon through series 4, so heed the spoiler warning.

Seated at a large table, across from influential government officials, Mycroft knew that he ought to focus on the meeting at hand. He should have been taking notes, or at least taking more care to take notes in his mind. He ought to have been glancing at copies of relevant charts and documents on his laptop screen.

Mycroft, however, had no interest in the meeting. His thoughts were occupied by a very unofficial matter.

That night a few days ago, watching Sherlock walk away with his new acquaintance from that college building turned crime scene, Mycroft had known that this was the beginning of a new era for Sherlock. Doctor John Watson would change Sherlock’s life in remarkable ways; that much was certain. Undoubtedly, there had never been a figure like John Watson in Sherlock’s life, a loyal friend to follow Sherlock into danger and adventure.

Well, not since Sherlock was a small child, at any rate. Mycroft thought of a young, light-haired boy, cheerfully following Sherlock along the beach. That was a very long time ago.

“No need to dwell on that now,” Mycroft whispered to himself, too quietly to be noticed.

The meeting continued as before around Mycroft. They probably weren’t concerned by his relative silence, as he often was quiet for long stretches at a time while he considered all the facts and contemplated how every factor involved affected every other factor. For all they could tell, Mycroft was peering intently at his laptop screen, absorbed with analysis of the data that had been presented.

None of his colleagues was close enough to discern that he was reading a report of the activities of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. At Mycroft’s order, their surveillance status had been upgraded, and their recent movements had been noted. They were still settling into their new flat, and by all accounts, they intended to live together for quite some time.

Mycroft frowned, an inconspicuous expression, which belied his disappointment. He had just experienced the end of a tiny, absurd, selfish hope. It had been a ridiculous hope. How absurd, that he should ever wish them to change their minds, so that Sherlock would continue to live alone. Wasn’t he pleased at the levels of responsibility and maturity Sherlock was displaying by taking a flatmate?

Not particularly, no.

Before John had entered the drama, Mycroft had been the closest thing to a friend Sherlock had—Mycroft had told John as much, when they met in the warehouse. Mycroft was not considered by Sherlock to be a friend, of course. He was Sherlock’s enemy; more than that, he was Sherlock’s archenemy. Mycroft had been willing to settle for that dubious role, even though being Sherlock’s friend would have been preferable.

He did this because in the end, when one has an archenemy, one does not forget that fact. Surely, someone who held such a lofty position in Sherlock’s life was ensured of one thing: that he would at least have _some_ position in Sherlock’s life.

Would a person in that position still be noticed, Mycroft wondered, if Sherlock gained some other, better person to occupy his time with? Was it outlandish to suppose that he might prefer a friend to an enemy? The relationship between him and Sherlock was already a difficult one. This might be the event that finally drove Sherlock away altogether.

The other members of the meeting were starting to raise their voices, Mycroft noticed.

“Nobody’s going to listen to any of this,” one of them was arguing, “unless we present them with the facts. We can’t keep the data bottled up.”

“There’s no point in releasing those documents,” another colleague retorted. “Everyone’s going to form their opinions first anyway, and then they’ll look for facts that agree with them.”

“That’s an exaggeration. Do you really think people can’t look at a chart and see which way it’s going?”

“Everybody’s got their own chart, and if they don’t, they’ll make one that suits them. You can’t fight gut feelings. What we have to do is appeal to their worldview. Facts have nothing to do with it!”

“Are you kidding me? They won’t have any reason to believe us if we don’t tell them the facts!”

Mycroft didn’t know what they were talking about, nor did he care. As the two fell further into their pathetic little argument together, their banter became like white noise to Mycroft.

There was little in this world that could compete with his little brother for Mycroft’s attention.

Returning to his report, Mycroft observed that Doctor Watson was searching for a job, as a civilian doctor. There was no doubt that he would have difficulty adjusting to such a job, considering how different the routine of a regular doctor was from that of a medical man in the army.

If only that man had accepted Mycroft’s offer, then he needn’t be so concerned with his job search, and Mycroft wouldn’t need to rely on a report to know how his brother was doing.

It boded well, perhaps, that John was not susceptible to a bribe. The implication was that he was trustworthy. However, Mycroft did worry about Sherlock—to state so was an understatement—and if he couldn’t live with Sherlock himself, the next best alternative would have been to employ Sherlock’s flatmate.

Now he had no claim over that flatmate, and Sherlock and John would be running off together every time, sharing knowing looks, setting off on some new adventure, leaving Mycroft behind.

Though not before Sherlock left his brother with bitter words.

“Putting on weight again?” inquired the mocking voice of his little brother, as clear to Mycroft as if it were spoken next to him, clear even over the boisterous arguments of his colleagues.

The words stung, though not for the reason Sherlock probably thought. Sherlock would have been shocked if he knew exactly why the comments about Mycroft’s weight were troubling.

Tiredly leaning back in his chair, Mycroft observed the emotive gestures and expressions of those around him. Nearly everyone had become involved in some petty argument by this point. Sometimes, he thought, even government officials were like children.

For a moment, they reminded him of Sherlock. He could imagine his brother making the same dramatic motions, illustrating his disdain for his only sibling.

That is to say, the only sibling he knew about. This, too, was not a subject worth dwelling on at this time.

Mycroft dismissed the thought, and scrolled down the report, the awful report, filled with terrible details of the life Sherlock was living with this new friend of his.

Why couldn’t Sherlock see that Mycroft could be his friend? They had so much in common, and could accomplish great things together. What need did Sherlock have of a John Watson, when he had Mycroft Holmes?

Observing his juvenile colleagues with far less judgment than before, it occurred to Mycroft that _he_ was being like a child, too.

There was no justification for his jealousy of Sherlock’s new friend. Despite what Mycroft would have preferred, he could not control what Sherlock did with his life, or whom Sherlock chose to associate with.

In any case, he wouldn’t lose Sherlock simply because Sherlock had a new friend. Through ordeals more trying than this, he had always managed to see Sherlock now and then. That would continue to happen. One could have a friend and still have an enemy.

And, of course, it was better that they remain enemies, anyway. They weren’t meant to be close.

It had been a disaster, after all, when they had been close as children.

Most emphatically, that was not a subject upon which Mycroft could afford to dwell. Even that small, dangerous thought had been enough to recall the tormenting sweetness that he had known in days long gone, when he had held Sherlock so that his little brother could sleep, and felt his heart grow full with powerful, distressing feelings that could never be disclosed.

It was socially, morally acceptable for them to be archenemies, so that was what they had to be.

Mycroft sat up straight, and reluctantly brought his attention back to the meeting, and to the insipid arguments of his colleagues. If anyone could restore order to this situation, it was Mycroft. As he prepared his words, he managed to close the surveillance report and open the relevant documents.


	2. Codes and Ciphers (The Blind Banker)

Another one of Sherlock’s cases appeared in the paper. There had been some business regarding murders linked to some smuggling operation, and apparently a valuable jade pin was involved. While an expansive criminal association might have been worth noting, this affair by itself was not significant enough for Mycroft to be concerned with, though clearly it had captured Sherlock’s interest.

With a newspaper under his arm, Mycroft entered the Diogenes Club, and easily made himself at home. He spent much of his time here. It was a quiet, soothing atmosphere, and above all else, a private one.

Mycroft was free to take his seat, open the newspaper, and read about Sherlock’s exploits, undisturbed.

“Reminds you of something, doesn’t it?”

Caught by surprise, Mycroft managed not to flinch. He stayed still in his armchair, and stared very hard at his newspaper.

“That clever bit about the Chinese numbers, doesn’t that remind you of something?”

In this place of all places, Mycroft refused to be shaken. He readjusted himself in his chair, and gave the newsprint a shake to smooth out the wrinkles.

“It’s nagging at you. You can’t help but remember. Oh, you want to forget, but you couldn’t ever forget anything. That’s really too bad for you.”

It was a voice that Mycroft knew very well, a collection of sounds that he had committed to memory long ago. It was the voice of his beloved brother. This made it very difficult to ignore, yet Mycroft tried his best.

“I’ve always been strangely drawn to ciphers.”

It was true. Codes of all kinds held a sort of fascination for Sherlock. For his part, Mycroft often dealt with codes in a professional capacity, though he personally had no great love of them. Sherlock was different, since his restless spirit was drawn to challenges of all kinds, and puzzles were certainly no exception.

“Codes, ciphers, they’re all so interesting, aren’t they?”

Sherlock—it was not _really_ Sherlock, though he was real enough to Mycroft—sat without hesitation on the arm of Mycroft’s elegant chair, opposite the small table. The two brothers were not close enough to touch, but the space between them was not abundant.

“It’s not so fun for you, is it?”

Closing his eyes, Mycroft almost banished the illusory character from his mind. He couldn’t quite bring himself to do it, however. The room would be too quiet if he did that, now that he had heard Sherlock’s voice.

“How sad that you remember everything as it was. How boring.”

Mycroft wished he had never learned the method of loci—what Sherlock called using a mind palace. Then perhaps his memory would not be so flawless, and his mind wouldn't be able to taunt him this way.

Bearing the mind of a Holmes, Sherlock could make incredible use of the technique, as could Mycroft. The figure seated on the arm of his chair was the Sherlock of his own mind palace, who could, to cite one of his more respectable roles, serve as something of a sounding board, someone Mycroft could discuss ideas with. Sometimes, when Mycroft allowed himself the indulgence, he would sit next to mind-Sherlock, simply to be around a Sherlock.

There were occasions, however, when this Sherlock made an appearance unexpectedly, with some teasing jibe or biting remark. This did not happen often, but sometimes he stayed for a long while, because Mycroft couldn’t bring himself to dismiss him.

“Redbeard,” the mind-Sherlock remarked airily, without any respect such a serious subject was due. “I take the credit for that one. Don’t you think it’s a clever code? You must, since you’ve worked so hard to keep it up.”

The newspaper was set in Mycroft’s lap. He clasped his hands together and bent his head, feeling the burden of his secrets.

Low and teasing, the tone of his brother offered no consolation. “The East Wind. That one was of your making, if I recall correctly, and of course I do. Well, the real me doesn’t, obviously, but _I_ do.”

 _Sherlock_ , Mycroft mouthed, to keep Sherlock from uttering any more, though he knew it was in vain. Even if he hated what this Sherlock was saying, he couldn’t wish to be parted from any version of Sherlock.

“Then there’s the best one. It goes like this…”

Mycroft leaned further into himself, pushing his nose against his hands. Still he could see the side of a sharp grin, which contorted the handsome features of mind-Sherlock.

“It’s the story of the Archenemy. ‘I have an arrogant, unfeeling, dreadful big brother. He is unappealing in so many ways.’”

Sherlock laughed, so loudly that Mycroft nearly expected the other club members to complain.

“It’s a much simpler code than that yellow Chinese graffiti,” he commented, waving at the newspaper in Mycroft’s lap. “With this one, the key couldn’t be simpler: you just have to reverse everything.”

He murmured into Mycroft’s ear.

“I have a compassionate, loving, beautiful big brother,” Sherlock said softly, his voice terribly, tortuously sweet. “He is appealing in so many ways.”

Mycroft’s hands clasped tightly.

“You liked holding me when I was small. I liked it too, couldn’t you tell? Of course you could tell. We liked it too much, both of us. That’s why I had to forget about what you were really like, just like I forgot about all the rest. Don’t you remember?”

Mycroft didn’t answer, and it was not merely out of duty to the members of the silent club. He did not know how to answer. He wasn’t sure exactly how strongly Sherlock had felt about him when they were young. Mycroft suspected that Sherlock’s feelings had been as strong as his own, though he couldn’t be certain. He only suspected.

This particular Sherlock seemed convinced, though.

“Can’t have funny feelings for a brother if he’s rubbish, after all. That’s why we can’t be on the same side, Mycroft. We have to be enemies. You know that as well as I do. It’s really pathetic when you hope we might be friends. I couldn’t handle that, and neither could you. Everything has to be written in a code, hidden in a cipher.”

This was too much to take. Mycroft didn’t need to be told any of this.

“That part about the yellow code,” Sherlock whispered. “It reminds you of something, doesn’t it?”

 _Go away,_ Mycroft mouthed weakly against his hands.

Finally, mind-Sherlock vanished.

A long moment passed, a quiet moment. Mycroft was relieved, though he could not deny that he missed the real Sherlock all the more keenly now.

Slowly, Mycroft pulled himself back up, recovering his dignity. He knew that he had made the best decisions he could to protect Sherlock from awful memories and unacceptable feelings. If he had to protect his brother with lies and codes, then that was what he had to do.

The newspaper was swiftly opened to a different page. Mycroft did not want to read about the jade pin case anymore. He had no interest in reading about ciphers.


	3. Something in Return (The Great Game)

Mycroft kept a busy schedule. It was imperative that he met his tasks as promptly and dutifully as the hands of the clock met their numbers. Therefore, acquiring an appropriate amount of sleep at the appropriate time was essential.

This evening, Mycroft needed rest. Sherlock hadn’t yet recovered the Bruce-Partington information, so Mycroft would need to continue to reassure his superiors on that issue; furthermore, the matter concerning the Korean elections still required attention. Mycroft would need to be well rested to perform his duties.

Yet this evening, sleep eluded him. Even as he turned in bed, trying to ease himself into slumber, his body stirred with an ache that was only becoming stronger.

It had started when he had considered how he would repay Sherlock for recovering the lost memory stick. He might suggest a knighthood, though Sherlock generally refused such accolades, probably only to spite his brother. Mycroft had thought to himself, in a casual, harmless, insignificant manner, that Sherlock might fancy some other kind of reward.

That had been Mycroft’s mistake, because almost instantly, that thought took a wicked turn. It was far too easy to imagine the lurid, improper ways in which he could reward Sherlock.

This was hardly the first time that his imagination had engaged itself in that kind of distasteful purpose. In days long past, he would have been startled and shocked, but by now he knew better than to waste time in hysterics. As Mycroft had done many times before, he had fought off those tawdry imaginings and got on with his work.

He was successful most of the day, and indeed, it seemed that desire might have let him alone at last; but as he lied in his bed, dressed in his pyjamas, he found himself picturing Sherlock sitting across from him on the bed, regarding his older brother with a measuring eye, expecting something in return for a service rendered.

Sherlock would be wearing nothing, unashamed, and impatient. Imbued with the unearthly grace that seemed to come to him without any effort, Sherlock would stretch out on the bed, and demand that Mycroft give him his due.

Of course, Sherlock wouldn’t ever truly do anything of the kind; yet never mind that. Mycroft could picture it clearly. Sherlock needn’t remember any of the tender moments they shared as children, or possess any remarkable feelings for his brother. It would be enough for him to seek only what paltry gratification Mycroft could offer to someone as passionate and alive as his beautiful little brother.

Mycroft thought of Sherlock folding his arms behind his head, grinning down at Mycroft, and directing his big brother to put his mouth to a decent use for a change.

Shame buried Mycroft, with horrible force. He curled up under the weight of his conscience, and shook his head, feebly. It was true that he was too accustomed to his unfortunate longing to be startled or shocked, but the guilt he felt for thinking of his brother this way was as troubling as ever.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered, clutching his blanket forcefully. “I’m sorry.”

He tried to clear his mind, but it was no good. The image of a naked, demanding Sherlock was too powerful to dismiss, and no matter how hard he tried, the weight between his legs would not be ignored.

Well, what else could he do, really? Nobody had ever found out about the previous times, after all.

Mycroft took a deep, resigned breath.

“Nobody will know,” he told himself, letting his guilty hand move down his body. “He won’t know.”

Mycroft touched his chest over the fabric of his long-sleeved pyjama top. Stroking idly with a thumb, he remembered how it felt to hold a little Sherlock against his body.

They had spent long nights in Sherlock’s bed together when they were children, Sherlock seeking comfort after his great loss, and Mycroft gladly providing any comfort he could give. He had held Sherlock close, murmured that he would always be there for his brother, and smiled sadly as he felt Sherlock’s little hand grasp onto his arm.

Although Mycroft hadn’t meant to be a large, plump child, it had felt good to be so soft and big for his small brother. Sherlock seemed to like that too. He had sought softness and warmth, and Mycroft could have given it to him forever.

Mycroft would have done anything to take away Sherlock’s pain, and yet, how he loved being there to make Sherlock feel better.

Stroking the skin under his shirt, Mycroft sighed as he recalled how Sherlock pressed closely against him.

As easy as it had been to tell himself that he was merely being a good brother, Mycroft had known that he was more devoted to Sherlock than could be accounted for by only brotherly concern. He had suspected, as well, that Sherlock’s feelings were of a similar stripe.

It was only a suspicion, perhaps a delusional, hopeful one on Mycroft’s part, yet it would explain why Sherlock had buried the memories of a helpful and caring big brother, why he refused to treat Mycroft as anything other than a haughty, overbearing figure, and why he insisted on deriding him for his weight, for mocking the body that had been soft and warm around his small frame.

Or, possibly, he had discerned Mycroft’s secret feelings, and was shocked by them, but being unwilling to face that shock, he had warped all the displays of his brother’s fondness into acceptable, comprehensible memories of arrogance and conceit, and judged Mycroft’s appearance all the more harshly for it, too.

In any case, Sherlock had forgotten how close they had been, and had distanced himself as much as he could from his brother. Sherlock was right to do so, of course. Mycroft was well aware that they needed to be kept separate, to a point. Brothers couldn’t be too close, so the two of them had to be far apart; there could be no middle ground for them.

Though they could not possibly be close emotionally, it was all too easy to think of Sherlock on this bed anyway, sneering at his brother, ordering him to be useful.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured, bringing his hand further down. “Sweet brother.”

He licked his lips, indulging in the thought of opening his mouth for Sherlock and closing his lips around him; at the same time, Mycroft took himself in hand, encircling the hot end of his arousal.

“Mmm.” With a low moan, Mycroft stroked himself, imagining how it would feel for Sherlock, to be sucked down by his guardian brother. Even if Sherlock had forgotten how close they once were, deep down within him, there was still the scared boy who had sought Mycroft for comfort. Perhaps, as his big brother satisfied him, Sherlock would feel something; a kind of relief he didn’t expect, a sort of nostalgia he wouldn’t understand.

Throbbing with need for his brother, Mycroft shook his head. His dry hand wasn’t enough. He needed more.

Feeling lightheaded as he rose from the bed, Mycroft ambled to his bathroom, dashing through the familiar space until he stumbled to a halt in front of the toilet. He found a jar of lubricant and slicked his hand.

“There,” Mycroft whispered, covering his ache tenderly with his wet hand. “Oh,” he gasped. “Do you like that, brother?”

Sherlock would make such lovely noises as his body trembled with pleasure, and he took what he wanted from the brother who cared for him.

As he pictured Sherlock bursting in his mouth, filling Mycroft with the forbidden, unknowable taste of his baby brother, Mycroft came with a cry.

Recovering his breath, he was faced with the inelegant, undeniable evidence of just how limited his self-restraint was. His hand and toilet were well and truly soiled. At least he had merely imagined Sherlock in his bed, and not worse. With time, he had learned enough self-restraint not to call upon the vivid, corporeal Sherlock that his own mind palace could produce. Doing so numbered amongst the worst things he had ever done.

Not that imagining his brother in his mouth wasn’t egregiously terrible in its own right.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” Mycroft mumbled to himself, reaching for some tissues to clean himself with. He made short work of the task, not wishing to linger.

Tottering back to his bed, he fully intended to put this distasteful activity from his mind and finally get some sleep. Mycroft had seen to his regrettable urge, and now came the part when he put the business out of his mind, for as long as he could.

Slipping back into bed, he wondered what Sherlock was doing at that moment.

Something with John, no doubt. Mycroft’s opinion on John had changed over time, as he came to see, even more clearly than he observed at first, that John was dependable and capable.

One must admit that life with Sherlock would be rather trying, and yet John carried on. He had every right to leave Sherlock by now, but he stayed, helping Sherlock stay focused on cases, bringing light into Sherlock’s life.

Though Mycroft had once been bitter about John moving in with Sherlock, he no longer felt that way. Indeed, he considered John an ally. He was a crucial part of Mycroft’s long-standing objective, the longest-standing objective: look after Sherlock.


	4. Only a Single Sheet (A Scandal in Belgravia)

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft gasped, shutting his eyes tightly.

“Yes, Mycroft,” Sherlock breathed. “Good.”

So much for self-restraint.

As imperiously as Sherlock had walked into Buckingham Palace wearing only a single sheet, this Sherlock had made even more imperious use of the grand building. Leaving poor mind-John Watson, and mind-Harry, the equerry, both tremendously confused, this Sherlock had taken his older brother’s hand, and led him further into the palace, past bewildered footmen and amused officials. He had guided Mycroft into one of the lavish guest rooms reserved for distinguished visiting dignitaries.

After shutting the door, this Sherlock had procured some oil that he had arrogantly brought with him, smuggled under the sheet, and laid Mycroft on the plush, pristine bed. In a matter of moments, he had helped Mycroft off with his clothing, and prepared himself shamelessly in front of his captivated brother. Without hesitation, this Sherlock, facing away from his brother, had taken Mycroft’s burning arousal in his hands, and sat on him.

“Oh, brother,” Sherlock moaned, riding Mycroft for all his was worth, slowly moving up and down.

Struggling to keep his hips still, Mycroft cried, “Sherlock!”

Mycroft was well aware that he was, in fact, pumping himself with his own slicked hands, in his own bedroom. That hardly mattered. Facts were meaningless. Mycroft’s world was one of obfuscation, rewording, framing; everything was a matter of perspective. This was no different.

If he wanted to believe that he was in a splendid bed with his baby brother, that mind-Sherlock was nothing less than the real Sherlock, then Mycroft was free to do so.

Mycroft could clearly hear Sherlock moan, and he could see Sherlock clutching the white sheet still wrapped around his chest. The sheet bounced with each fall that mind-Sherlock made. He was beautiful, the dark curls his head a striking contrast against the lively white linen.

Really, what had Sherlock been thinking? Dressed in nothing but a sheet, without even any pants!

In all honesty, Mycroft hadn’t been much better. He had been playing with fire when he’d found an excuse to step on that sheet, and he had been half-sorry when Sherlock didn’t walk away. He’d kept enough of his dignity to demand that Sherlock put his clothes on.

But he was with _this_ Sherlock now, and there wasn’t need for dignity here.

“Oh,” Sherlock moaned, clenching for the benefit of them both. “You feel so good, Mycroft,” he said, sweetly. “You feel right inside me.”

Though he was breathless, Mycroft somehow managed to answer. “You feel good, too, Sherlock.”

Mycroft knew that mind-Sherlock was, as his name suggested, a product of his mind, and since Mycroft’s mind had no real precedent to drawn on, had no knowledge of what his brother was like in bed, this was an imperfect construction of Sherlock, a barely adequate amalgam of pieces of information and various physically intimate encounters in Mycroft’s life.

Even his brilliant mind had difficulty creating a worthy approximation of Sherlock.

The illusion wavered. Sherlock felt less tangible on top of Mycroft, his soft gasps oddly subdued. The room started to look less like the lavish design of Buckingham Palace and more like the elegant but understated bedroom in his home.

“No!” Mycroft screamed. He was aching and desperate for his baby brother, his sweet Sherlock. “Not yet! Stay with me, please!”

Mycroft knew that there was no reason for this Sherlock to stay. Sherlock had never demonstrated any desire to bed his brother, or anyone else. In general, he scorned close relationships with people, and even if Sherlock did experience attraction to anyone, he was hardly one to care for demands of the body. Mycroft thought it unlikely he’d done anything very intimate with a partner, and evidently Mycroft was not the only one who suspected this, if Moriarty’s nickname for Sherlock was any indication.

There was probably some truth to it, since the man’s cold nickname for Mycroft had been so accurate.

But, Mycroft thought, Sherlock might have an unsatisfied desire, and he was resourceful and clever. He could play with himself, with toys, in anticipation of the day when he could lead his older brother to moral ruin. It wasn’t too preposterous to envision him sharing a bed. It wasn’t too unimaginable.

Suddenly, Sherlock was fully tangible again, and he was filling the palace bedroom with scandalous, passionate noises.

Simultaneously relieved to have Sherlock returned to him, and wracked with guilt as badly as ever, Mycroft sobbed with need. Distantly, his hands stroked more quickly.

“Oh, yes! Oh, you like this, don’t you, Mycroft?” Sherlock had started to move faster, briskly lifting himself up and dropping down. “Ah, yes, lying back and letting little brother do all the work, that’s j-just like you…”

“I… hardly chose this position,” Mycroft gasped.

“Hmm… Then let’s try another one.”

Sherlock eased himself off Mycroft, leaving his brother unsatisfied, and wearing a smug expression that showed he knew as much. He lied down on his stomach, next to Mycroft, and smirked at him.

“Your turn to do the work,” Sherlock remarked.

Tentatively, shaking, Mycroft lifted himself up, and turned around.

Bracing himself against the bed and spreading his legs, Sherlock chuckled. “This isn’t too much effort for you, I hope?”

This was a horrible trick for his mind to play on him. It was bad enough to let Sherlock use him for his satisfaction, but to encourage Mycroft to intently take his little brother had to be worse.

“Well, Mycroft? Don’t make me wait!”

It was beyond Mycroft’s powers to resist that demand. Moving into position, gently grasping Sherlock’s hips, Mycroft pushed himself into his baby brother.

Sherlock inhaled a long breath. “Oh, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.” Mycroft was aching so badly now, but he didn’t want this to end. He wanted to pleasure Sherlock for as long as possible.

“More, harder!”

Naturally, Mycroft’s hips drove into his hand—into Sherlock.

“Yes, yes!”

“Sherlock, oh my sweet Sherlock, I love you.”

Sherlock freely rubbed himself against the bed, yet his answer was hesitant. “Mycroft…”

Mycroft loved Sherlock with all his heart, but even in Mycroft’s mind, Sherlock couldn’t say the same. Sherlock had forgotten any warm feelings he had ever possessed for his brother.

As he should have. As was proper.

The illusion shattered suddenly, completely, blown apart by shame. Sherlock was gone, as was Buckingham Palace. All that remained was Mycroft, with his inadequate hands.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured, fighting tears, “Sherlock.” The tears fought their way through, falling onto his bed as he repeated that name. “Sherlock, Sherlock.”

Holding on sadly to the last he had imagined of his brother’s warm, soft skin and low, alluring moans, Mycroft reached his peak. He shouted and wept as he emptied himself into his hands.

Alone in his bed, Mycroft breathed hard. For an endless time, he felt elation tinged with fierce loneliness. It was dangerous to indulge in the mind palace this way. As it usually did, it left him with the keen awareness that he and his brother were not together, and never could be.

All lives end, all hearts are broken.

Caring is not an advantage.

It had been painful to tell that to Sherlock, and even more so to tell it to himself. Regardless of that pain, he had needed to tell it to Sherlock, to protect him from feeling the sting of loss and betrayal ever again; and he needed to tell it to himself, to put an end to this absurd, repugnant infatuation with his sibling.

Mycroft had not managed to exorcise that infatuation from his soul, and probably never would, but he could keep it in check.

For the time being, he had calmed the thoughts that had stirred as soon as he had seen his brother in a sheet. His gratification had not been all he could have hoped for, but it was enough. He could forget about imaginings of his half-naked brother for a while, and he never needed to tell anyone what he had done here, in the privacy of his bedroom. This would just be another secret, thrown into the abundant hoard of secrets he owned already.

There was no room for truth anywhere in his life, it seemed—not in his work, nor in his family, nor in himself.

Turning over in the bed, onto the spot where Sherlock had been just moments ago, Mycroft huffed a bitter laugh. _Truth_ really was a preposterous word.


	5. Hello, Brother Dear (The Hounds of Baskerville)

In his tidy, grey office, Mycroft stood behind his wooden desk, leaning on the sturdy object with one hand as he peered at the laptop before him. The screen of the laptop was bright in the dim room. It was evening, and no sunshine came through the grid-like skylights; the desk lamp and two sconces provided a small but adequate amount of light, which reflected meekly off the two tall, slim mirrors.

This office was a fairly plain one, which helped maintain the public image of Mycroft Holmes as a minor government official. Furthermore, there was another advantage to this office: it was impossible for any sound inside to be overheard. No interloper could hear the footfalls of Mycroft’s shoe slowly tapping on the hard floor, or the excuses he was muttering to himself.

“I suppose,” he said, to the bright laptop screen, “that one more time wouldn’t do any harm.”

He tapped a key on the laptop.

_“Hello, brother dear. How are you?”_ came the too-sweet sound of Sherlock’s recorded voice. The exaggerated affection of his words had been, of course, insincere.

_“In trouble again, Sherlock?”_ was Mycroft’s quick response.

_“Oh, not at all,”_ said Sherlock, soft and obsequious as before. _“I was only wondering if my kind, generous brother wouldn’t mind helping me with a small matter.”_

The compliment, however disingenuous it might have been, had stalled Mycroft, though only briefly. _“It seems that I might have helped you already, considering that alert I received of my supposed entry into a restricted facility miles away.”_

_“Yes, well, as it happens, I would like to get into that facility again, and they might not be so keen to let me in a second time. If you, however, were to formally grant me access to Baskerville, then all that trouble could be avoided.”_

_“Rather bold of you,”_ Mycroft had observed, _“to make such a request. You should be grateful that I haven’t brought formal charges against you for the first attempt.”_

_“Oh, absolutely, I am very grateful. I do have such a kind, understanding brother.”_

_“I can’t give you what you want, Sherlock,”_ Mycroft had said, seriously, doing his best to ignore the barefaced sycophancy of his brother.

_“I only need to look at a few research labs.”_

_“Out of the question.”_

_“I’m investigating a case.”_

_“I’m sure you are.”_

_“Come now, brother dear, it would mean so much to me.”_

_“Sherlock,”_ Mycroft had uttered, with warning.

_“Mycroft,”_ Sherlock had replied, with encouragement. _“You do want to help me, don’t you, darling brother? Of course you do. My kind, devoted sibling would do anything to help a brother in need. Haven’t I always said that you are the most magnanimous and gracious of all God’s creatures?”_

Sherlock’s extravagant attempt at flattery was impinged somewhat by a faint chuckle in the background. That was John, no doubt. It was reasonable that John would chuckle. He must have believed that the persuasive style Sherlock had chosen was absurd. Surely, Mycroft Holmes, the politician, could not be persuaded with blatant cajolery.

Nevertheless, a kind of bittersweet joy had bubbled in Mycroft’s chest, making him feel dizzy with affection that somehow had to be kept contained. He loved hearing Sherlock say kind words to him, even if Sherlock didn't mean what he said.

_“Only to look in a few of the labs?”_ Mycroft had asked, tentatively.

He fancied that a look of surprise must have come over John’s face, though not Sherlock’s.

Certainly, Sherlock was not the first person to try using flattery on Mycroft in order to persuade him, but he was the only one who had ever been successful. Though not aware of all Mycroft’s sentiments, Sherlock had, at some point, discovered that flattering Mycroft could yield a modest result. Perhaps he ascribed the phenomenon to Mycroft’s vanity, particularly his sense of superiority over Sherlock.

If Sherlock knew the depth of Mycroft’s feelings, then he would know that he could acquire nearly anything from Mycroft by talking to him so sweetly. This was one of the advantages of keeping Sherlock in the dark where Mycroft’s sentiments were concerned; Sherlock did not know how much power he held over his brother.

He had no idea that with a few tender words, he could acquire so much more than a security pass to a research facility.

_“Give me entry for only the week,”_ urged the recorded voice of Sherlock _. “This case will surely be wrapped up by then. You can give me a week, can’t you? It would be of great help to me and my client. I’m sure we can count on you. You are such a generous, altruistic man. It’s no wonder you are so greatly admired.”_

Mycroft closed his eyes, as he had upon hearing these words the first time. He relished each melodious syllable. He learned well the sound of each loving word from Sherlock’s voice.

Keeping up a pretense at negotiation—and drawing more loving words from that cherished voice—Mycroft responded, _“I can’t give you a week. That would be impossible. There are security protocols in place.”_

_“Not impossible for my brilliant, clever brother,”_ Sherlock purred. _“You can get around security protocols. Nothing could stand in the way of someone as capable as you. Surely, you can manage forty-eight hours.”_

_“Twenty-four hours,”_ Mycroft conceded at last. _“Not a minute longer.”_

There was a note of smugness in Sherlock’s reply. _“Thank you, dear brother.”_

The recording ended. Mycroft sighed deeply, and plopped with enough force into his chair to make it spin.

Fortunately, some good had come of Sherlock’s manipulation. Since their phone conversation, Sherlock had indeed finished the case he had been occupied with, and had brought his client some peace. Mycroft knew some details of the affair. The client who had come to Sherlock had suffered great tragedy as a child, and his mind had created a story about a dog to make sense of his traumatic memories.

It was almost a shame that Sherlock was unaware of the irony.

In hindsight, Mycroft noted that the parallels between the histories of Sherlock and this client might have been enough to ripple the deep waters of Sherlock’s memories. Mycroft was glad that he had made that unambiguous suggestion to Lestrade to take a holiday in Dartmoor; if Sherlock’s memories had been awakened, he would have needed as many friends around him as possible.

Mercifully, though, the reprogramming that Sherlock had done to himself all those years ago remained intact. As far as Sherlock was concerned, Redbeard was still a dog he had cared for as a child, and the East Wind was just a scary story, told to him by a mean, arrogant older brother.

Disheartened, Mycroft folded his arms, and looked down at the dull grey floor.

No matter what enticing cajolery spilled forth from his brother’s lips, Mycroft knew that he remained, in Sherlock’s clouded eyes, the mean, arrogant older brother.

That was how it must be, Mycroft reminded himself. He was bound to always be his brother’s antagonist. To learn the sound of Sherlock speaking to him with fondness and admiration was a foolish, hopeless activity, one that could only aggravate his ancient longing for the gentle, tormented boy who had cried in his arms when they were young.

He remembered little Sherlock murmuring little words against Mycroft’s chest, as Mycroft stroked his little brother’s back. Sherlock had sometimes murmured of his grief, or his fears; other times, he had thanked Mycroft for being there, and told him that he was a good big brother.

These inadvisable reminiscences were a warning to Mycroft that he ought to leave the office. The sooner Mycroft shut his laptop and ceased this regrettable exhibition of sentiment, the better off he would be. Whenever possible, Mycroft had to avoid giving in to sentiment.

It was not always possible.

Mycroft reached his hand forward, and tapped the key again.

_“Hello, brother dear. How are you?”_


	6. Sherlock’s Departure (The Reichenbach Fall)

Standing alone in a deserted warehouse, one he occasionally used for clandestine meetings, Mycroft slowly drew in a breath of the cool night air, and carefully leaned forward on his umbrella. He was trying to relax, but he knew too well how significant this rendezvous might be.

Mycroft had one more chance to see his brother before Sherlock departed for the continent. Sherlock planned to travel all throughout Europe and even further than that, taking down the criminal network cultivated by Jim Moriarty. It was unclear how long Sherlock would be gone, but surely he would be away for some time, as Moriarty’s connections were numerous and insidious. Dismantling the network would be a considerable task, one that a decent agent might devote their life to.

It was doubtful that this task would be a lifelong pursuit for Sherlock, Mycroft decided. Sherlock was cleverer than most, and possessed remarkably energy when he dedicated himself to a problem. Even if he did not manage to take apart Moriarty’s criminal network with sufficient speed, Mycroft had no intention of letting Sherlock stay away forever.

Mycroft heard the sounds of a car approaching the warehouse. Soon enough, he glimpsed the ordinary-looking cab pulling to a stop.

A figure dressed in simple clothes and carrying a nondescript shoulder bag alighted from the vehicle. This individual wore a hooded sweatshirt, with the hood pulled up to obscure his face. Having arranged this meeting in advance, Mycroft knew well who this was, though he fancied he could have identified Sherlock merely from his easy, confident, direct gait.

Despite his worries, Mycroft resolved to appear calm and unconcerned.

“Good evening, brother mine,” Mycroft greeted, in a slow, careless fashion. “How do you like my meeting spot? John came here, once. I don’t believe he cared for it very much.”

Pulling his hood down, Sherlock remarked, “I didn’t come here to chat.” He thrust his hands with dramatic annoyance into his pockets. “I really am rather busy. You’d be surprised how busy one gets, being dead.”

Mycroft didn’t care for this flippant remark, and he made this clear with the iciness of his tone. “I do wish you would treat the situation with more seriousness. Besides, you are hardly busy. You have plenty of time to catch your flight.”

“I _am_ busy.”

Shifting from one foot to the other, Sherlock looked out towards where his cab waited. Mycroft took the opportunity to gaze on his brother’s turned face, to admire the refinement of Sherlock’s features. There was beauty not only in his features, but also in his graceful, animated bearing. The ordinary clothes he was wearing for anonymity only accentuated his loveliness by contrast.

Many times, Mycroft had admired his attractive brother in the relative safety in his mind, yet the copy of Sherlock that lived in Mycroft’s imagination would always be merely an imitation of the real Sherlock’s magnificence.

“There are other things I want to do before I’m off,” Sherlock muttered. “There are still some loose ends to be tied.”

This was a lie, of course. He couldn’t truly expect Mycroft to believe him. Mycroft had taken great pains to account for every detail of Sherlock’s departure, and he knew that there was no other appointment vying for Sherlock’s time. However, if Sherlock was eager for this meeting to be over, then Mycroft would only aggravate him by questioning the excuse too directly.

“That is understandable,” Mycroft said, graciously. “You have a long holiday ahead of you, I believe.”

“It won’t be long,” replied his brother’s cool voice. “I’ve defeated the spider at the heart of the web. I’ll have no difficulties with the inferior subordinates he left behind.”

Mycroft was reassured by this lofty claim, though of course he did not show it. Instead, he gave his brother a reproachful eye. “Take care, Sherlock. One must not overestimate one’s abilities.”

There was a brief, insincere laugh. “That’s almost funny, coming from you.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, as one might do when one is offended. He was supposed to feel offended, of course, even if his feelings were actually closer to resignation. He knew that this teasing between them was as it should be, that brothers often did tease each other, though he could not help but think that he would have preferred to hear Sherlock laugh with pure joy rather than mockery.

“Well,” Sherlock said impatiently, “do you have what I came here for?”

“Yes.” Mycroft pulled an envelope from his inner coat pocket. “Passports and other identification documents, as well as everything you need to access your new untraceable bank account. I hope you will guard this envelope very carefully.”

Taking the envelope and stowing it into his bag, Sherlock gave a grunt that might have been an assent, though probably wasn’t.

It was hard to watch Sherlock drop the envelope into his bag, because now he had everything he needed to embark on his quest. Nothing was stopping Sherlock from leaving the country. That envelope could be the last thing Mycroft ever gave to his brother.

That was what made this entire rendezvous so significant, after all—it could be the last time Mycroft ever saw his brother. Sherlock was capable and resilient, and Mycroft was determined to assist him should assistance be needed, but hunting criminals around the world was a risky business. There was no guarantee that Sherlock would return.

“If that’s it, then,” Sherlock said promptly, “I’m off.”

Mycroft didn’t want him to go yet. “Wait a moment.”

“Why? We’re done here.”

“You’re in rather a hurry, I observe. I wonder why.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Sherlock scoffed. “The longer this conversation continues, the greater becomes the risk that we’re going to say our goodbyes, and that would be dreadfully awkward.”

So that was why Sherlock wanted to leave so quickly. Mycroft was not surprised. They had little use for displays of sentiment, especially towards each other. It would have been divine for Mycroft to give his brother a heartfelt goodbye and parting embrace, yet such shows of affection had not been part of their relationship for a very long time.

“Then let us pass over that part of the exchange,” Mycroft said, struck with the urge to keep the conversation going anyway. “However, I do have a question for you, before you leave. I wondered if John relayed something to you for me, shortly before your fall. Did he?”

Sherlock eyed Mycroft with curiosity. “No, he didn’t.”

“That’s hardly surprising. He wasn’t looking too kindly on me at the time, as he surely isn’t now.”

“What did you want him to pass along?”

“I asked him to tell you… I’m sorry,” Mycroft said evenly.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, incredulously. “Why?”

“For giving Moriarty information about you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock uttered, uninterested. “Of course, John didn’t know about our plan. Well, you and I both know there’s no need for an apology for that. You should have said ‘I’m sorry’ for something you actually did wrong.”

“I beg your pardon? I have done nothing wrong.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

“Oh, do we?”

“Of course. You could start with an apology for being a rubbish brother.”

“Don’t be childish, Sherlock.”

“Oh, those words do sound familiar,” Sherlock huffed, annoyed. “You’ve always talked down to me.”

“Have I, always?”

“Yes! For instance, you’ve made it clear that you consider yourself _the smart one_.”

“I’ve only ever stated the truth.” Mycroft might have laughed at his own words, if the atmosphere had been less serious. “I am the smart one. And you _are_ being childish. You must take care to control your emotions.”

“Oh, yes, there’s another age-old bit of wisdom. I can remember all the times you told me I shouldn’t be bothered by sorrow or anger. When I lost my best friend, you told me that death was inevitable! You ought to be sorry for _that_.”

Mycroft adjusted his grip on his umbrella. “I suppose you’re referring to Redbeard.” He watched Sherlock carefully to see how his brother reacted to the name.

Sherlock clenched the fist holding the strap of his bag. “He was your dog, too, and you still didn’t care. You couldn’t be bothered by anything.”

“You’re perfectly right,” Mycroft said, noting with approval that Sherlock was still protected from his traumatic memories. “I’m not bothered by sentiment. It’s nothing to be sorry for. I heard you say once that love is a chemical defect, Sherlock. Well, then I’m not defective. That’s an advantage, wouldn’t you agree?”

That drove some of the energy of Sherlock, who didn’t disagree. He also didn’t notice the unnatural stiffness with which Mycroft stood, or the unusual tightness of his grip on his bamboo umbrella handle.

Undeniably, Mycroft had plenty to be sorry for. He longed to say that he was sorry for holding his baby brother longer than he ought to have done when they were children, for cherishing their closeness when Sherlock was so distraught over his loss, for causing such confusion in his brother that Sherlock could not allow himself to remember the comforting moments they had shared.

He wished he could ask forgiveness for desiring his little brother, for spending sleepless nights at university aching to be his little brother’s first lover, for ancient fantasies of spoiling Sherlock with devoted attention in bed. Mycroft longed to give his regrets for imagining Sherlock against him in the shower, or on his knees in front of him in Mycroft’s study.

Mycroft burned to give an apology for all his depravity. Unfortunately, that was impossible. Any such apology would dispel the illusions in Sherlock’s head and endanger his mental condition, to name only one of the terrible consequences that would occur. All Mycroft could do was try to make up for his sins in other ways.

“Instead of dredging up old history,” Mycroft said, “you might thank me.” He glanced pointedly at Sherlock’s bag. “Passports don’t grow on trees.”

“Oh, really? I truly thought they were picked in an orchard,” Sherlock remarked, sarcastically. “How foolish of me. You really are the smart brother.”

There was a short silence, as they glared at each other, as squabbling brothers would. Then, Sherlock smirked.

“But then, you could never be bothered to pick anything in an orchard. All that exercise, the exertion. You would actually have to _move_.”

Mycroft offered a smirk in return. “You should be on your way now, Sherlock. You have loose ends to tie.”

“I was just about to leave.”

“Just one more thing, if you don’t mind. Brother mine,” Mycroft said, his voice softer than before, “be careful. I should not like this to be the last time I see you.”

Sherlock paused, taken aback by this request, one that could almost be sentimental. He might have tried to read an explanation for it in Mycroft’s face. Mycroft didn’t give him the chance, however, as he had already turned around, and was strolling to his own waiting car.


	7. Come Home (Many Happy Returns)

Stepping out of his private dining room and into an open world of nature, which his imagination created from his memories, Mycroft could smell scents of wood carried by a light breeze. He felt the softness of dirt underneath his elegant shoes.

He was wearing an elegant pinstripe suit, which meant that he was scarcely dressed for the country, yet that did not matter. When one was walking in a memory, one needn’t be too concerned with one’s attire.

Peering past some of the trees, he could see a familiar grey house, the ancient Musgrave Manor. He fancied heading in that direction. It was a pleasure to look upon the stately home, before it had been burned and ruined. Perhaps he could have some tea there, and appreciate the house that was part of his family history.

Before he took a single step, however, he noticed that there were already prints from shoes on the ground. They were very small, as if made by a child, and heading away from the manor.

Mycroft followed those prints deeper into the forest. Before long, he could discern muffled sounds of crying, which led him directly to the end of the print trail, where he found his little brother.

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured, filled with compassion.

Sherlock, a small boy, was curled up at the base of a tree, his head buried in his arms. When Mycroft said his name, Sherlock sobbed helplessly, refusing to raise his head.

Mycroft’s heart was thoroughly broken by the sight of his despairing brother. “My poor, sweet Sherlock.” He sat next to Sherlock on the dirty ground, caring far more about his brother than about his suit trousers. Touching Sherlock’s trembling shoulder, he was astonished at how tiny the boy was under his own adult hand. If Sherlock had been small to Mycroft in those days, he seemed even smaller now.

“M-Mycroft,” Sherlock stammered, “I’m sorry.”

“No, there’s nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock. You don’t need to be sorry for being sad. I’d like to help you feel better, if you would let me. May I hold you?”

Weakly, Sherlock nodded against his arms, bringing his sobs under control. “O-okay.”

“Thank you.” Eagerly, Mycroft wrapped his arms around his small brother, feeling the soft texture of his brother’s jumper and the vulnerability of the little body within.

Immediately, Sherlock latched securely onto Mycroft’s chest. He was trembling, clutching tightly onto the suit of his tall, grown brother. Deeply touched, Mycroft was nearly drawn to tears himself.

“I love you,” Mycroft told him, enjoying how freely he could say so here.

Sherlock was still shaking, but Mycroft’s affection comforted him somewhat. He trembled a little less.

Gently, Mycroft said, “We tell each other everything, don’t we, Sherlock?”

“Mmhmm,” Sherlock agreed.

“Then will you please tell me why you are out here, alone?”

“I don’t want to go home.”

That was hardly a surprise. Victor had gone missing, and Eurus wouldn’t say anything about it, though clearly she knew something. Sherlock could not be expected to feel comfortable in the place that Victor had been taken away from, and where Eurus still dwelled and did nothing to bring Sherlock’s friend back.

Sherlock looked straight up at his adult brother. “Mycroft, can we live in the woods instead?”

Glancing down at his adorable, cherished sibling, Mycroft felt a pang of sadness. “No, Sherlock. But things will be all right at home. I will stay with you. I’ll always be there for you.” He kissed little Sherlock on the cheek.

Sherlock graced him with a charming smile—although a sort of subtle, worried look flashed in his eyes for a moment. Mycroft knew it was the nagging feeling that brothers weren’t supposed to be this close. It was the feeling that would eventually cause Sherlock to forget all of the reassuring embraces and kisses on the cheek.

Mycroft did not want to be forgotten yet. He kissed Sherlock’s cheek again, and a third time.

Sherlock giggled. “Okay, that’s enough! I feel better.”

“Good,” Mycroft said. “Come home now, Sherlock. I’ll look after you.”

Stroking Sherlock’s arm, Mycroft knew too well how much he wanted Sherlock to come home. The real, adult Sherlock.

Sherlock had been away from England for nearly two years. There had been some communication between them, and Mycroft had been able to follow his brother’s movements to some extent. Nevertheless, Mycroft missed Sherlock.

He supposed he was fortunate merely to know that Sherlock was alive. There were others who did not have that luxury, who had been to Sherlock’s funeral—his flatmate, his landlady, his detective inspector (an unusual role, to be someone’s detective inspector, though Lestrade had filled it admirably).

They did not have to worry about Sherlock staying alive, at least. Too frequently, Mycroft became preoccupied with concern for his brother, and there was little he could do to assuage his worries when Sherlock was so far away. He much preferred to have Sherlock close by, where Mycroft could observe him through the miracle of video surveillance.

“Won’t you please come home?” Mycroft asked his little brother.

“Only if you are there.” Sherlock rested his head on Mycroft’s shoulder, which was sweetly moving and uplifting.

The soft, sweet presence of little Sherlock made Mycroft hopeful. He expected that his brother would return to England soon.

With any luck, a problem would shortly arise in London that would require the expertise of Sherlock Holmes. When that happened, Mycroft would not hesitate to take the excuse. If necessary, he would have himself personally flown to wherever his brother was and bring Sherlock back himself.

In the meantime, Mycroft was content to sit with his little brother. They did not need to return to the house right away, after all. Mycroft slid closer to the tree and leaned against it, guiding Sherlock to lie directly on his big brother’s chest. Sherlock smiled widely as he bent his little legs and sat on Mycroft’s lap. Mycroft smiled down at him, and touched his brother’s pretty curly hair with doting, reverent strokes that seemed to bring Sherlock peace.


	8. All Grown Up (The Empty Hearse)

When he had brought his brother back to London, Mycroft had gone through the trouble of having a barber chair brought into his office. Since then, the chair had been used, Sherlock’s hair had been cut, and now that he was publicly known to be alive, he wouldn’t need to have his hair attended to in such a clandestine manner again. Nevertheless, Mycroft had not been in a hurry to have the chair removed.

Alone in his dim office, Mycroft leaned back in the barber chair. He thought of his dear brother reclining in this same sturdy piece of furniture. Mycroft tilted his head back, where his brother’s head had been, and he slid his hands along the black cushions where Sherlock had rested his arms.

Mycroft had enjoyed watching his brother be restored to his proper appearance, in much the same way one would appreciate an old painting being restored by a skilled artist. Certainly, the renewal of his brother was a far prettier spectacle than that which Mycroft had been obliged to witness in the Serbian military base.

Sherlock had declared that Mycroft enjoyed seeing his brother’s interrogation. Considering the prejudice that Sherlock had long ago built against his brother, it was not surprising that Sherlock would hold that view. Of course, Mycroft had not enjoyed it. He simply had not been able to intervene without taking unnecessary risks. Under no circumstances could Mycroft have allowed himself to be captured or interrogated.

It was selfish to abide by the interrogation of his brother, when he would not allow it to happen to himself. It was also practical. Sherlock could handle it, and Mycroft could not.

Sherlock was the stronger brother. He had been for a very long time. It went without saying that, when they were very young, Mycroft, being seven years older, was physically stronger; however, by the time they had both matured into adults, Sherlock could have defeated his older brother in any test of strength. Full of energy and ambition, Sherlock had been drawn to running, climbing, and exploring when Mycroft had much preferred to sit in a chair and quietly read a book. This was still true.

When Sherlock became interested in detective work, he made a study of various martial arts, and became even stronger. It could be said Mycroft had acquired great authority and influence over the years, yet he had done so largely from an armchair. He had not acquired strength as his brother had.

Part of Sherlock’s strength was his resilience. He could endure cold, fatigue, and pain better than Mycroft could. Mycroft had seen dramatic evidence of Sherlock’s resilience when he had seen his brother beaten by a Serbian soldier. In his disguise, Mycroft had no choice but to see it happen. Had he given himself away, he would have put both of their lives at risk. His capacity for physical endurance was not equal to his brother’s.

Sherlock was indeed strong, and not for an instant did he near a breaking point. Mycroft had watched him closely, careful to see if he needed to risk interference, but not for a second did Sherlock falter. At that time more than every other, Mycroft had clearly observed that Sherlock was the stronger brother.

“Well,” Mycroft said to himself, attempting a light tone, “perhaps I don’t give myself enough credit. I was able to withstand a matinée of _Les Mis_ with my parents.”

In light of the hardship that Sherlock had endured, this was a terrible and inappropriate joke. Mycroft was glad nobody was around to hear it.

Nonetheless, he wished that he wasn’t alone in this room. If his younger, stronger brother were in this office right now, Sherlock could climb onto Mycroft’s lap with ease. Sherlock wouldn’t be the small, vulnerable little boy he once was; he would be the capable, confident adult he had become.

After settling himself on Mycroft’s thighs, Sherlock could grasp Mycroft’s face, and pull him into a fierce, urgent kiss. Mycroft would groan with desire, making Sherlock kiss him all the more deeply.

Mycroft wanted to experience his brother claiming one kiss after another from him. He knew he could feel at least an approximation of it through his mind palace. It would be wrong to conjure such an illusion. But it would be futile to fight his desires, which were sure to cloud his mind until he dealt with them in some way. This would have to be just another instance when he got the urge out of his system and then moved on.

Closing his eyes, Mycroft remembered how vibrant and attractive Sherlock had looked when he had been in this office. After braving two years in foreign cities and landscapes, taking apart an international criminal network, Sherlock was still glowing with vitality, and eager to return to his work. Those two years had done nothing to diminish his spirit, nor had they made him any less beautiful.

Just a few seconds later, Mycroft felt a weight settle on his lap, and two hands came up to hold his face.

“Brother mine, open your eyes.”

Mycroft did as he was bid, and was stunned by the vision of his handsome brother’s face, so close to his own.

“Ah, that’s a good big brother,” Sherlock said, smirking. “Part your lips for me, now.”

A sharp twinge of desire, and a sharper one of guilt, made Mycroft shudder. “Sherlock…”

“You want me to kiss you, don’t you?”

“Please, Sherlock…”

Slowly, Sherlock stroked his thumb along Mycroft’s bottom lip. The gentle, teasing touch filled Mycroft with longing. “Admit it, Mycroft. You want your strong, grown little brother to do what he wants with you.”

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted, quietly.

With a smug expression, Sherlock easily leaned forward and kissed Mycroft. He led every soft, blissful second, guiding Mycroft as they kissed.

Meanwhile, Sherlock started opening Mycroft’s trousers. Mycroft grew warm with anticipation, and then he trembled helplessly as his brother took him in hand.

In reality, Mycroft was touching himself—in his office, on a barber chair, of all places.

Whining with need as he pursed his lips, Mycroft found that he cared little for the reality of the situation. He preferred to picture Sherlock grinning at him as he made Mycroft whimper.

Sherlock pulled back to breathe, though he quickly moved in close again, to whisper against Mycroft’s cheek. “Baby brother’s all grown up. He has a nice big, strong hand. How does it feel?”

“S-Sherlock…”

“It feels good, doesn’t it? Nobody else could ever do better for you. Nobody ever felt as good as this feels.”

Lost in the wonderful sensation of Sherlock’s fingers, Mycroft couldn’t disagree.

“You’ve stopped trying to find someone else, I see. Really, I have been away for two years, and all that time, you haven’t found anyone?”

“No, I-I haven’t,” Mycroft stumbled over his words, making small thrusts into his brother’s hand.

In a daze, Mycroft watched the potent movements of Sherlock’s arm. It felt terribly good. Each stroke was powerful and commanding.

“No new friends at all? No goldfish?”

“We, oh,” Mycroft breathed, “we have been over this already, Sherlock.” To be precise, Mycroft had discussed this with the real Sherlock, not his mind-Sherlock, but they were similar enough.

“You could find friends, you know, or an intimate partner.” Sherlock spoke coolly as he kissed Mycroft along his jaw, leaving a sweet, burning trail wherever his lips went. “You could find a real person to spend your time with.”

That quip from mind-Sherlock stung bitterly. “I’m too different from other people,” Mycroft muttered.

“They won’t mind that you’re different.”

Mycroft gasped when Sherlock’s strong hand tightened its grip. “You’re the one I w-want, Sherlock... I want to be with you, even if it’s a facsimile of you.”

“Hmm, well at least you have good taste.”

Smirking, Sherlock looked Mycroft directly in the eyes, and kissed him again. Mycroft groaned, tilting his head back, closing his eyes, and relishing every sinful moment.

Feeling the exquisite dominance of his determined, resilient brother, Mycroft was glad that Sherlock had buried his traumatic memories. Surely, if Sherlock were saddled by the terrible truth, he would not have been able to grow into the strong man he had become.


	9. Married (The Sign of Three)

Mycroft sat in his armchair in his home, idly tapping the screen of his phone. It was evening, and nearly time for bed. He supposed that Sherlock was probably still awake though, possibly thinking a case over on his sofa, or leaning over an experiment in his kitchen. It was also probable that he was alone, now that John was gone and married. Perhaps Sherlock was even lonely.

It was not easy to imagine Sherlock being lonely, yet he already had been so at the wedding, where he had resorted to calling Mycroft and asking, however indirectly, for Mycroft’s mediocre company. Mycroft had been flattered by Sherlock’s call, though by no means had he been deceived by it. Sherlock didn’t want him there, and neither John nor Mary would have appreciated his presence. The invitation had merely arisen as a result of Sherlock’s anxiety. He had only been grasping for distractions. It was his way of dealing with the consequences of becoming too involved.

Sherlock should have known better. Losses are inevitable. Friends will not be around forever. He remembered Redbeard, didn’t he? Well, not precisely, but surely he remembered enough to know not to get overly attached.

Turning the phone around in his hand, Mycroft wondered if Sherlock wouldn’t mind a call from his brother. A little conversation might benefit them both. It would be wise to check up on Sherlock, and perhaps, they might play a juvenile game that could provide a bit of amusement. Mycroft did enjoy hearing his brother’s voice, and Sherlock seemed to be in need of comfort.

However, it would be better not to call at this moment, Mycroft ultimately decided. He could not be trusted to give Sherlock any kind of comfort.

Anyway, Mycroft would be seeing Sherlock soon and often enough, now that John was out of the picture. It would be like old times, before Sherlock had a best friend to occupy his time with. Not that spending more time together would change the relations between the two brothers. Nothing would bring them any closer. Sherlock was convinced that Mycroft was aloof and distant. That impression needed to remain intact.

With a sigh, Mycroft placed his phone on the table next to his armchair.

He decided to take a shower before bed, which he discovered too late had not been the best decision to make. His mind still whirled with thoughts of Sherlock, and he couldn’t help but dwell on what it would mean to spend more time around Sherlock. Seeing his attractive brother, especially when he became impassioned over a case, was a perpetual test to Mycroft’s fortitude.

Since the beginning of his indiscretions, when he had lied in his university bed and pretended that his hand belonged to his little brother, Mycroft had struggled against his desire. He had gained more self-control over the years, though the struggle remained.

Taking deep breaths, Mycroft mastered himself.

For a time.

He managed to keep to a respectable routine in the shower, and dressed for bed without incident. Yet Mycroft’s discipline could only hold for so long, and his mind was only too eager to conjure more images of beautiful, bright-eyed, raven-haired Sherlock. Mycroft remembered how, when he had come home on holiday from university, he had caught a glimpse of Sherlock dancing by himself, thinking that nobody could see. Such a provocative memory that became for Mycroft, when he returned to his school. Its appeal had never diminished.

It was evident that his self-restraint failed somewhere between the bathroom and the bedroom, for as he stepped closer to his bed, he found that the bedroom became some new place, redecorated by his mind.

The room had transformed into an elegant suite, made in hues of gold and red, decorated with the soft light of old-fashioned lamps and rose petals strewn over white sheets. Mycroft believed that his mind drew these features from some hackneyed, mawkishly sentimental film he had seen at some point; admittedly, he had something of a weakness for such films, so he could have taken inspiration from more than one.

“The rose petals are a bit much.”

Mycroft turned and came face-to-face with Sherlock, who was looking terrible handsome in a tuxedo fit for a groom.

“Do you like your honeymoon suite, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked, in a tone that was both teasing and strangely gentle. “How about your husband? Does he meet your approval?”

“I tried to resist, Sherlock,” Mycroft murmured, feeling obliged to excuse himself for this unthinkable fantasy. “I am sorry.”

“Oh? Don’t you like being my husband?” Sherlock grinned. “I like being yours. You look radiant.”

Mycroft blushed at the compliment, moved even though the flattery came from a creation of his imagination. “Hardly. Besides, I’m in pyjamas, and you are wearing a tuxedo.”

Sherlock touched Mycroft’s chin, making Mycroft shudder helplessly. “Look at how you respond to me. Perfect.” His fingers danced down Mycroft’s neck, and Mycroft warmed to every little touch. “Your body was always intriguing to me. In the old days, I wanted to hold my soft brother close, and be enveloped in his arms.” Not that Mycroft was truly certain of that; it was only a suspicion, though _this_ Sherlock did not seem to have any doubts. “Oh, but this time, I’ve got you. I’ll take care of you, like you took care of me.”

“This isn’t right,” Mycroft murmured, dazed by Sherlock’s light touches, and ashamed of the feelings in his own body. “You should call me names. You should call me disgusting. You should make me leave.”

“Hmm. I’d rather see you undress yourself on the bed.”

Mycroft gasped. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock leaned closer. “Don’t you want me, Mycroft? I want you. I’ve always wanted you. I’ve never forgotten, not really. So do please get rid of those clothes if you don’t mind.”

Despite his better judgment, Mycroft gave in. It was the work of a moment for him to remove his pyjamas, and soon he was reaching for a jar at the side of the bed, though of course, in his mind, it was Sherlock who reached for that jar.

Sherlock, who had undressed at a speed only an imaginary person could achieve, guided Mycroft onto his stomach, and then dipped his own hand into the lubricant.

“Oh, Sherlock, please…”

“Everything’s all right.” Sherlock stroked him along his sides. “You’re soft, as you were then.”

“I… I have been using a treadmill, and I have considered acquiring weights…”

“Don’t worry, brother dear. I love how soft you feel.”

Sherlock placed the jar to the side, and his finger slowly entered Mycroft. Mycroft whimpered, trying to push more of his finger – more of Sherlock’s finger into himself.

“It’s all right,” Sherlock purred. “I have you.” He steadily prepared Mycroft, who trembled and moaned under Sherlock’s care.

“I need you, Sherlock,” Mycroft admitted, glad to be able to confess for once. “Please, have me…”

“Soon, soon.”

“Now, please!”

“Shh,” Sherlock whispered, lowering his voice to a sultry murmur. “I don’t think you’re prepared enough yet, and I’m the one who’s calling the shots here. Or would you rather be the one to take the lead? You know so much more than I do. I’m just a little virgin, for all you know.” His hand withdrew, making Mycroft tremble with loss and longing. “In this one area, I’m as ignorant as anyone else, so why don’t you tell me what to do?”

Mycroft breathed hard, desperate. “No, Sherlock, keep going, as you were! _You_ are hardly a virgin. We’ve been doing this for years, loathe as I am to admit it; so get on with it!”

“Hmm, you make a fair point.” Sherlock chuckled. “This is hardly the first time a carbon copy of your brother has shared your bed. But really, you just can’t bring yourself to sleep with your brother unless _he_ initiates it, can you? If baby brother’s the one in charge, then there’s no reason for you to feel bad. Oh, but we didn’t always play it this way. Do you remember the first time? You were a university student, as I recall.”

Shaking, Mycroft cried, “Don’t remind me of that! I will not sink that far again – even _this_ is too much! If I was strong enough, you wouldn’t be here at all.”

“Now now, that’s not a nice way to speak to your husband.” At last, he returned to preparing Mycroft.

“Oh,” Mycroft moaned sharply, for the overpowering sensation of Sherlock’s hand as much as for what Sherlock had called himself, and as Sherlock continued his task, Mycroft kept moaning, no matter how much he tried to muffle himself against the petal-strewn bed.

“Good,” Sherlock whispered.

“Oh, Sherlock…”

“I think you’re ready, now,” Sherlock noted, a playful note in his voice. “Now, dear Mycroft, may I…?”

Powerless to his brother, Mycroft begged, “Yes, please, Sherlock!”

Finally, Mycroft felt the vague yet thrilling sensation of being joined with Sherlock, who did not enter him all the way, but teased him with shallow, enticing thrusts that made Mycroft beg for more. The feeling was vague because it was manufactured from memories, being a blend of all kinds of sensations Mycroft had known or envisioned in his life; the combination was thrilling because it filled Mycroft’s mind with memories of Sherlock’s passion and brilliance.

“Sherlock!” he shouted, overcome, writhing against the bed.

“Yes, Mycroft, yes….” Sherlock sighed, a truly captivating sound.

Suddenly and loudly, the familiar ringtone of his phone started booming through the room.

“Blast!” Mycroft shouted angrily.

The illusions all fell around him. Sherlock vanished, and the honeymoon suite was gone. There was only Mycroft, who was faced with his own pathetic reality: squirming alone on a bed, making creative use of his fingers pressed together.

There was no time to waste pitying himself. The call could be an important one. Drawing out his hand from himself with a wince and hurriedly grabbing a dressing gown, Mycroft stumbled out of his room to the table where he had left his phone. He answered it as quickly as he could.

“What?” He demanded irritably.

_“You’re out of breath, again._ ” It was Sherlock. _“What are you doing? And don’t tell me you’re filing.”_

Why did it have to be Sherlock? Mycroft shut his eyes, burning with shame. “Never you mind. What do you want?”

_“As before, either I’ve caught you in a compromising position or you’re working out. Probably the former, this time, considering the late hour. I’ve pulled you from a friendly companion, have I? I would ask for their name but I imagine you didn’t bother to learn it._ ”

Mycroft flushed with embarrassment. He hardly wished to discuss his recent activity with his real brother. At least Sherlock hadn’t deduced the worst part of it. “Why did you call, Sherlock?”

_“Nothing urgent. I was merely seeking intelligent conversation. However, you may as well return to your… associate. I can’t expect to get intelligent conversation out of you in this state.”_

Accustomed to being the arrogant and teasing brother, Mycroft retorted, “Oh, didn’t you want to know all about what I’ve been doing? It might be instructive for you.”

Too late, Mycroft saw how horrifyingly unwise that comment had been. He hardly needed to suggest any more fantasies to himself, and there was a chance that Sherlock would wonder why Mycroft had made such a dubious suggestion so quickly.

Fortunately, Sherlock, also accustomed to their banter, did not seem to discern any deep meaning in the offer.

“ _I’ll manage without._ ”

Mycroft chuckled on cue, though he was not mirthful. He was mortified, and furthermore, he was worried. Sherlock had more or less admitted that he was lonely. And of course he was. Mycroft had foreseen as much.

“I’ll come round to your flat tomorrow, Sherlock.”

“ _I don’t need your company._ ”

“Of course you don’t. I’ll see you at noon.”

“ _Fine_ ,” Sherlock conceded, predictably.

“Goodbye, Sherlock.”

“ _Goodbye, Mycroft. Try not to crush your partner_ ,” Sherlock warned, with false concern. “ _They might not be accustomed to someone of your weight. That is, if you end up on top, which I have doubts about_.”

His face growing redder by the second, Mycroft ended the call. He really didn’t need to hear his brother commenting on what position Mycroft took in bed. In all likelihood, Sherlock was now laughing to himself at the jibe, believing that Mycroft had hung up out of anger and annoyance, not out of other terrible emotions.

Mycroft was not angered or annoyed, not at Sherlock at least. He longed to call Sherlock back, and tell him everything. He wanted to confess all his feelings for his brother.

That tempting, dangerous urge, together with the enticing knowledge that Sherlock had called Mycroft and sought Mycroft’s company of his own volition, conspired to bring him back to his honeymoon suite, to the enchanting fantasy of being married to Sherlock.

In a moment, mind-Sherlock was holding him again, stroking his arm. “Now, where were we, brother dear?” He caressed Mycroft’s hips, helped him turn over on the soft bed, and then vague and thrilling sensations were all that Mycroft knew.


	10. Four Minutes of Exile (His Last Vow)

Mycroft, along with John and Mary, watched as the white plane skidded loudly to a halt on the tarmac and marked the end of his brother’s four minutes of exile.

Just those four minutes that Sherlock had been in the air were too much like those two years Sherlock had been gone dismantling Moriarty’s network. Already, Mycroft had begun to worry about how Sherlock would keep himself safe, and whether or nor they would see each other again. Though he hoped Sherlock had absorbed some lesson from this punishment, however short-lived it proved to be, Mycroft was prepared to guess that the interval had been more taxing for him than for Sherlock.

Undoubtedly the reappearance of Moriarty was disconcerting, and the shaky image of him with the eerie words _“Did you miss me?”_ playing on a loop on every screen in the country was troubling for a number of reasons. However, Mycroft could see the advantage of the situation. With Moriarty returned, the man who had defeated the villain before was needed again. That man happened to be Sherlock Holmes, and therefore Sherlock could not be placed on assignment in Eastern Europe on a mission that was likely to result in his death within six months.

Had the alert from Moriarty never come, Mycroft would have done everything in his power to keep Sherlock alive and free, though it would not have been an easy task, considering what Sherlock had done. To put it plainly, he had killed a man, though he had done so to protect his friends, and clearly as a last resort. Sherlock himself had seemed so shaken by his actions that, standing over the fallen body of Magnussen, with his hands in the air and red lights of snipers wandering over his features, he had appeared to Mycroft, who had been far above in a helicopter, more like the small, scared boy of times past than the grown consulting detective.

It was evident enough that Sherlock had acted with good intentions; despite that, there were consequences to vigilante justice, especially considering Magnussen’s great power and influence. Without Mycroft’s intervention, Sherlock unquestionably would have been sent directly to prison and locked up for the rest of his days. For all the faults of the undercover assignment planned by MI6, at least there was some possibility of escape from it. Furthermore, Sherlock was resourceful, and he had survived his two years infiltrating Moriarty’s network around the world. There was a chance, however small, that he would have survived the assignment in Eastern Europe.

Fortunately, none of that mattered now. They would never need to know how successful, or unsuccessful, Sherlock would have been.

Glancing to the side, Mycroft observed the fond feelings glittering in the eyes of John and Mary as the small plane came to a complete stop. Though John was as shaken by Moriarty’s appearance as much as anyone, he and Mary were evidently glad to see Sherlock returning. This was natural, Mycroft supposed, since they were Sherlock’s friends. For their sakes, Sherlock had taken a man’s life and nearly been sent to his own doom in a faraway place. One hoped that they appreciated how lucky they were.

Really, Sherlock ought to be more careful about this friendship business. It did him so little good. Surely he remembered enough of Redbeard to know better? It seemed that he was forgetting that lesson more and more.

Turning away from John and Mary, Mycroft recalled that Sherlock had given proper goodbyes to both of them. Sherlock had neglected to perform a similar service for Mycroft. Wisely, it must be said. It would have been awkward for both of them. Mycroft in particular would have had difficulty, because, as he stood before his little brother for the last time, Mycroft would have fought a great battle with himself to keep his feelings inside.

Mycroft sometimes wondered how he had gone on so long without making such an error. Nobody was as schooled as he in keeping an impassive face, but he had been in love with his brother for so long and so deeply that he had been bound to make a mistake sooner or later. If they had said formal goodbyes, and truly never expected to see each other again, then maybe Mycroft might have told Sherlock everything, if only to confess his guilty secrets at last, and give a proper apology. In some small way, he could have tried to atone for his private fantasies, and he would have liked to express his regrets for having caused Sherlock any distress or confusion as a child, for being responsible for Sherlock erasing memories of any comfort his older brother had ever given him. How cathartic it would have been, to ask for Sherlock’s forgiveness.

It went without saying that Mycroft was glad that this had not occurred. If the confession had not ended in absolute disaster, which was an overly optimistic supposition, then after his four minutes of exile, Sherlock would have returned knowing Mycroft’s shame, and all would have been tremendously uncomfortable.

It was possible that all was still to be tremendously uncomfortable; Sherlock had in his possession all the clues he needed to decipher Mycroft’s secrets. Hadn’t Mycroft admitted that losing Sherlock would break his heart? On account of drugging the punch that Mycroft drank, Sherlock must have disregarded these words as nonsense. Mycroft liked to think that he would not have been so careless as to mutter his confession without the influence of that infamous punch; in any case, Mycroft had not lied, not then.

When the plane door started to open, Mycroft quickly drew himself from his thoughts. He would approach the craft with a dignified bearing. Sherlock could never learn of the intense relief that Mycroft felt at this moment. Mycroft had to wear a serious expression, even though he was profoundly happy that he would not lose Sherlock, and his heart, feeble as it was, would go on unbroken.


	11. Keep Sherlock Clean (The Abominable Bride)

With the apparent return of Moriarty, it was clear that Sherlock, the person best suited to taking Moriarty down, had to be released of all guilt from his crime. England could not be kept safe from Moriarty’s machinations, whatever they were, if the law was hounding Sherlock for murder. Therefore, Mycroft needed to revise history, so that Sherlock was not guilty. He would have no difficulty in achieving this. Moriarty had given Mycroft all the reason he needed to use every resource at the government’s disposal.

Mycroft was now being driven to Whitehall. Once he reached his destination, Mycroft would begin work on modifying the evidence. He knew exactly what actions to set into motion. Reports would be redacted, and footage would be altered. It would all be done cleanly and efficiently. Nobody would congratulate Mycroft for it, especially not Sherlock. That was fine. Though he might have appreciated some acknowledgment from his brother, Mycroft was accustomed to operating from the shadows.

People who knew things, people like the late Magnussen for instance, understood that Mycroft was indeed a powerful man, but most had never heard of him. He had never been a public figure.

Sherlock was very different from Mycroft in that respect. The consulting detective graced newspapers and televisions with his shocking cases and captivating personality. Naturally, some of those journalists and reporters suspected Sherlock of being involved in criminal activity himself. Such suspicions had diminished since his name was cleared following the Richard Brook incident, though some continued to have their doubts about Sherlock Holmes, especially after his miraculous return from the dead. Surely there remained a few imaginative souls who still suspected Sherlock of secretly being a master criminal.

Glancing out the windows at other cars and ordinary people, Mycroft smirked.

Nobody suspected _him_.

“How could they?” Mycroft softly asked himself.

They didn’t know Mycroft existed. He was never in the papers. He had no blogger. He was accountable to very few people, and they weren’t as clever as he. Mycroft was in as suitable a position as any to quietly involve himself in a bit of theft, or blackmail, or murder. He could plant the seeds of a criminal network, as Moriarty had, and patiently watch his underworld influence grow. Then, as a master criminal, perhaps Mycroft would finally be able to do what he’d spent so many years trying to do: keep Sherlock clean.

When Sherlock was hunting Moriarty, he didn’t bother with cocaine. He stayed away from the dark back alleys and cheap houses haunted by drug addicts. He didn’t curl up in a stupor on the floor, and stare vacantly at the ceiling _._ Instead, he put his clever mind to work. Oh, certainly Moriarty was not anyone’s idea of a saint, but he had to be given credit for what he did for Sherlock.

It was possible to take inspiration from Moriarty’s example. Mycroft longed to give Sherlock everything he needed, to give him so much comfort and support and joy that he never looked back at another thoughtless syringe, but since Mycroft couldn’t do anything of the kind, it was worth considering alternative ways to protect Sherlock from his addiction. As a criminal mastermind, he could confound Sherlock with puzzles and mysteries that would keep him absorbed in cases and off illicit substances.

Of course, Mycroft had no designs on becoming a master criminal. He did not desire more power or influence than he already possessed, and he had no wish to harm anyone needlessly. It was an absurd thought to consider. There was little Mycroft wouldn’t do, though, for Sherlock’s sake. If he did orchestrate crimes for Sherlock to solve, then there would be no more drugs.

“And then we would need no more lists,” Mycroft muttered.

Thoughtfully, he withdrew his small red notebook, and flipped it open to the ribbon bookmark, where he had stored the pieces of Sherlock’s latest list. He sighed as he read the scraps that told what Sherlock had taken before he got on the plane.

Turning to the notebook itself, Mycroft noticed the top of a page, where he had written _REDBEARD_ and boxed it with a line.

Sharply, Mycroft drew breath, seeing instantly why, even if he lost himself so far as to become a criminal mastermind, he could never become the one that kept Sherlock clean. It was the same reason that he could never have assumed a very different meaningful role in Sherlock’s life: Mycroft was Sherlock’s brother. Sherlock had reprogrammed his own memories, but surely betrayal by a sibling would upset the careful work of his mind. The fiction of Redbeard would not hold. And Mycroft, if he ever did anything cruel, would be no better than his sister, who had been responsible for the trauma that disturbed Sherlock as a child.

Mycroft had never relished being his brother’s archenemy, anyway.

Looking out the window again, Mycroft noted that the car was nearing its destination, and soon, he would release Sherlock from the consequences of his actions at Appledore. Though Mycroft could not give Sherlock the thrill of the hunt, at least he could give Sherlock the freedom to pursue Moriarty and other criminals. And, naturally, Mycroft would continue to watch over him, from afar.

Mycroft had sometimes watched closely over Sherlock in the old days, when he had found Sherlock lying on the ground in those putrid houses, and sat for a long time at his brother’s side. There had been few other times when Mycroft allowed himself to be so close to Sherlock.

At the time, and still today, he wished he could hold his dear little brother closer. He wanted to hold him like when they children, and to tell him everything. Though Mycroft had told Sherlock that he would always be there for him, there was so much more he wanted to say. He longed to tell Sherlock that that they could hold each other forever, that they would defeat the addiction together, that he would always love his dear little brother.

Mycroft had imagined comforting Sherlock in other ways, as well. When Sherlock’s mind was clear from those accursed toxins and he was far away from those dark, furtive alleys, Mycroft would take Sherlock to a comfortable bed, in a tidy house, where he would be safe. Sherlock would reach out for him, pleading for his brother to stay with him, and Mycroft would not hesitate for a moment. After they undressed, Mycroft would lean down over his brother, stroke him lovingly, and swallow him, enjoying the sweetness of Sherlock’s moans and doing his best to give Sherlock something better than what the drugs provided. Although, it would be impractical to keep Sherlock clean from poison, only to dirty him with the terrible love of a brother.

The chauffeur opened the car door for Mycroft, and he put away his thoughts as quickly as he could. If he finished swiftly enough here, then he could deal with his objectionable feelings in the evening, alone with his guilty hand and his thorough imagination.


	12. Appointment in Sumatra (The Six Thatchers)

A drawer slid easily as Mycroft pulled its handle. Inside the drawer were several papers, though only one interested Mycroft at the moment. He looked through the papers, but he could not find the one he wanted.

When Sherlock was a child, he heard the story, “Appointment in Samarra,” which told of a merchant who could not outrun death. Sherlock didn’t like that story very much, as Mycroft recalled. In fact, Sherlock felt compelled to write a different version, called “Appointment in Sumatra,” in which the merchant lives and everything is fine.

Mycroft remembered watching him write it. Sherlock, who was a little boy at the time, sat at a small desk in his bedroom with pencil and paper. Turning away from the window, Mycroft looked at the very same desk.

The young boy Sherlock was sitting there, writing with a pencil on paper.

Having found what he sought, Mycroft closed the drawer, and fixed his eyes on the surface of the desk on which Sherlock was writing.

“What are you doing?” Mycroft asked, as he had back then.

“I’m fixing the story that Eurus told me,” Sherlock replied.

“What story did she tell you?”

“‘Appointment in Samarra.’ It’s about a merchant who tries to get away from death, but he can’t.”

“I’m familiar with the story,” Mycroft said, without adding that it was not the kind of story he thought suitable for young children.

One would find it strange that a young girl would be telling stories about death. However, Mycroft had decided it was not something to be too concerned about. Eurus had often contemplated subjects that few children could understand. Surely Mycroft had been a little startled, but, not being much more than a child himself in those days, he didn’t see that this was a hint of the dark gloom in Eurus’s mind.

He could not have known that, years later, he would have to make routine calls to a secret prison facility to check on his little sister and ensure that a vigilant watch was kept on her.

“I’m finished,” Sherlock announced, setting his pencil down. He stood from his chair and reached up, offering the paper to Mycroft. “Well, you do want it, don’t you? You were looking for it.”

“Yes, thank you.” Mycroft gratefully took the sought-after document from his small brother. Grasping it carefully, he held it up and started reading.

The story was written in the scrawling script and concise language of a child, though still an admirable piece for one of Sherlock’s young age, being perfectly legible and coherent. It was fairly short and easy to read, and the plot was clear enough. In brief, the merchant survived.

Mycroft found the changes charming, if naïve, and he smiled when he came across the ending, which described the merchant becoming a pirate. This turn of events reminded him distinctly of a young Sherlock cheerfully running around with a toy sword.

Glancing at his brother, Mycroft found Sherlock now dressed as a pirate, holding a toy sword.

Sherlock was smiling wide. “I’m going to go play.”

“Enjoy yourself.”

“Will you come play with us?”

“Us?”

“Redbeard and me. We could kidnap you. It’d be fun!” Sherlock looked Mycroft up and down with sharp eyes. “You’d get that boring suit dirty,” he added hopefully, as if it were an enticement.

“No. I’m sure you and Victor would enjoy yourselves better without me there. Besides, I’m still looking at your story.”

“Fine, but come if you change your mind.”

Sherlock ran off, leaving Mycroft alone in Sherlock’s bedroom. The title of the story drew his eyes back to the paper. “Appointment in Sumatra.” These words were among the triggers that Mycroft could use now and then to ascertain Sherlock’s mental condition.

When Sherlock had last visited Mycroft in his office, he had spoken of the future as if it could be calculated precisely, if only one could attenuate to every strand of data in the world. By bringing up this subject of predetermination, Sherlock had given his brother a natural opportunity to mention the story of the merchant. Mycroft had done so, referencing the original version as well as Sherlock’s, and watched Sherlock carefully for any sign that the modifications to his memory were weakening. Fortunately, Sherlock showed no such sign. No memory of Eurus seemed to resurface at the mention of the doomed merchant from Baghdad.

Nevertheless, Mycroft was concerned. Sherlock was at risk. He’d let himself become too attached to his friends, and now he was enduring the loss of one of them. Mycroft had tried to warn him that agents like Mary do not generally live to old age, but the warning had done little good. Considering the impact of this loss, as well as the tension evident between Sherlock and John over the incident, it wouldn’t be surprising if trouble were stirring in the deep waters of Sherlock’s buried memories.

Sherlock might finally remember Victor, and Eurus, and, in a manner of speaking, his brother.

Suddenly, Mycroft felt unfit to stand in this bedroom. It was Sherlock’s bedroom, or had been before it burned to the ground. The most notable feature was the small bed. It was a child’s bed, though it had been large enough to hold the forms of both Sherlock and Mycroft, through those long nights after the incident, when Sherlock had shaken and whimpered in his sleep, and Mycroft had held him tightly.

Mycroft touched the soft bed, but drew back his hand instantly, shocked by thoughts of his adult brother lying naked on his back, beckoning Mycroft to that very bed. It was just a whisper of a thought, and Mycroft was able to shake it off. He could not let himself soil Sherlock’s childhood bed, not under any circumstances. Even in this place, Mycroft had a little dignity left.

Not desiring to be around the bed any longer, Mycroft left the room. Knowing Musgrave Manor as well as he did, he hardly needed to glance before making his way through the house. He headed to the sitting room and sat on the sofa there, raising Sherlock’s paper up to read it again.

His fingers ghosted along the words, which had been crafted by his sweet, joyful little brother, before everything changed. He read the story many times. Each time, he missed Sherlock more keenly than before.

At last, he could take no more. He wanted to see his brother again. He didn’t like to pull his Sherlock away from Victor, but if he could not take liberties with Sherlock’s bed, he could at least enjoy Sherlock’s company.

Placing the piece of paper at his side, Mycroft called out, “Sherlock? Are you still here?”

“You called, brother dear?”

Sherlock, as his attractive adult self, entered the sitting room with a smirk, wearing a dressing gown in contrast to Mycroft’s suit.

Mycroft swallowed. “I didn’t mean to call _you_.”

“Didn’t you? Well then, if you don’t want me here, send me away.”

Mycroft glared at Sherlock. For a long moment, he tried to find the strength to do just as Sherlock said.

He couldn’t find the strength.

“You shouldn’t encourage me,” was all he managed. “We both know I shouldn’t do this.”

“Who cares? You want me, don’t you, Mycroft?”

“You know that I do,” Mycroft quietly answered. “Let’s make it quick.”

“Why? Oh right, because you’re ashamed of spending some quality time with your beloved little brother. Well, if you’d like it quick, I can do quick.” Radiant with confidence, Sherlock sat on Mycroft’s lap, straddling him and grinning. “Won’t be a problem. You can’t help yourself when you’re under me.”

Mycroft was breathing faster, entranced by Sherlock’s gleaming eyes. “Sherlock…”

Sherlock slowly rubbed himself against Mycroft.

“God, Sherlock,” Mycroft gasped.

“Ah,” Sherlock sang, bracing himself on Mycroft’s shoulders as he brushed his pyjamas against Mycroft’s trousers. “I can feel you getting hard.” He leaned himself to the side for a moment, to take a look at the item sitting next to Mycroft on the sofa. “Oh, there’s my old story. So you’ve kept it after all these years.”

Mycroft blushed furiously, to be behaving so outrageously right next to that piece of Sherlock’s innocence. “I wish you hadn’t reminded me.”

“Relax. It’s just a copy. The original was burned years ago, lost to flames with the rest of this house. That one’s not real.” Sherlock chuckled, his rich timbre filling Mycroft’s ears. “But nothing is real in this place.”

Sherlock was right. This house lived on only in Mycroft’s mind palace. Regardless, real or not, this place was better than one where he sat alone on his sofa, rubbing himself with a firm palm, and picturing, with perfect, painful clarity, his brother’s beautiful face and captivating voice.


	13. Sherlock Needs a Hug (The Lying Detective)

Sherlock had staunchly declared that his recent agenda of self-destruction had only been carried out for the sake of a case. There was something to be said for this argument. He had managed to catch a serial killer, who had thought Sherlock weak and broken due to the drugs. However, Mycroft wished Sherlock had found some other way to solve his case. Really, what was the point of a case if Sherlock had to poison himself to solve it? The cases were supposed to steer him _away_ from the drugs, not lead him to them!

Furthermore, no matter how successful Sherlock had been, he must have known that his friends, and Mycroft, would not be entirely convinced that Sherlock would immediately return to sobriety after the criminal had been apprehended.

Sherlock’s friends had developed a plan to watch over Sherlock in shifts, and Mycroft naturally volunteered some of his time. There was, unfortunately, some difficulty in arranging permission to enter Sherlock’s flat. Mrs Hudson was not pleased with Mycroft for having presumed to make a search of the place. Mycroft could well remember the unpleasant scene that had occurred between them. He was used to being called cold and heartless by Sherlock, but “reptile” was a new and striking epithet. Nonetheless, he had given his apologies to Mrs Hudson for acting as he did in the flat, and he was generously allowed to return.

Presently, Sherlock fidgeted with his jacket in his dark armchair, while Mycroft, hands clasped calmly in his lap, had taken the opposite red seat.

“I don’t need you here to watch me,” Sherlock muttered, for not the first time.

“Of course not,” Mycroft replied, unconvinced.

“I only used for the case.”

“I believe you.”

“I gave you the list, didn’t I?”

“After weeks of use.”

Annoyed, Sherlock crossed his arms. “Shouldn’t you be off running the country?”

“The country will survive a few hours without me.” Mycroft warily tapped his thumbs together. “Frankly, I’m not in a hurry to return to the cabinet office. You’ve caused me a great deal of embarrassment.”

“Oh, it must be so hard for you, having a junkie brother.”

“That’s not what I mean, Sherlock,” Mycroft retorted, and this time, he was absolutely sincere. “I was referring to the fact that throughout this latest adventure of yours, we had to keep tabs on you. You were clearly unstable, and you made public accusations against a powerful public figure.”

“But I was right.”

“Regardless. Please do be more careful in the future. Following all that effort we put into clearing your name after the incident with Magnussen, it was rather awkward to treat you as a security risk.”

“One obnoxious drug user is hardly cause for alarm,” Sherlock observed. “There was no need to consider me a security risk. You were probably just using the government to keep an eye on your ill-mannered little brother. It’s a superiority complex with you.”

Sherlock wasn’t the first person to suggest that Mycroft placed too much of his professional attention on his brother. Some of the few officials who held as much clout in the government as he had intimated that he let his concern for his brother get the best of him. Mycroft generally told them that familial bonds didn’t affect him, and that they only need look at his other sibling for proof. Of course, he couldn’t say that to Sherlock.

Instead, Mycroft merely relaxed in his chair, and with a smirk, played the familiar part of a distant, arrogant brother.

“What a foolish idea. Younger siblings are far more likely to experience a superiority complex.”

Sherlock glared at him, then spun in his chair and curled up with an irritated grunt.

They sat in silence for a long time. Mycroft eventually pulled out his phone and got a small amount of work done, while Sherlock moved restlessly into different positions on his chair before finally retrieving his violin. He plucked its strings for the better part of an hour.

As that hour came to its close, so did Mycroft’s shift.

“My time is almost up,” Mycroft commented, glancing at his pocket watch. “Miss Hooper should now be on her way, I believe.”

“I don’t need babysitters.” Sherlock grumbled. His eyes were still turned away, glazed with that far-off look he sometimes possessed when he held his instrument.

Ignoring Sherlock’s claim, Mycroft stood up from his chair, smoothing out his clothes. “I’ll just have a cup of tea before I go, if you don’t mind.”

“Wait.”

Surprised by the abrupt command, Mycroft turned toward Sherlock, who was facing Mycroft now. “Yes?”

“I need something from you, before you go.”

“Oh?”

Slowly, Sherlock stood up, placing his violin on the seat behind him. For a second, his eyes, which now glittered with some new emotion Mycroft couldn’t name, met Mycroft’s, and then his gaze darted to the floor. “I need a hug,” he murmured.

Mycroft was rendered speechless with astonishment. Those were words he never thought he would hear from his brother in adulthood, in reality.

“Just this once,” Sherlock implored. “Please. Just one time, then we’ll never speak of it again.”

Mycroft swallowed. “Very well, if it would help you,” he said, trying very hard not to sound affected.

He didn’t know what had brought on this sudden request. It could mean that this withdrawal was particularly difficult for Sherlock. Whatever the reason, Mycroft was only too happy to oblige. Keeping an oh-well-if-we-must expression on his face, he opened his arms, and reminded himself to breathe. Sherlock stepped closer, and wrapped his arms around Mycroft.

It was not as close as the tender embraces of Mycroft’s fantasies. Naturally, Sherlock was not about to press his face into Mycroft’s shoulder, or tightly clutch the back of Mycroft’s jacket, or do anything of that nature. Nonetheless, it was a genuine hug. Feeling his brother lightly embrace him, Mycroft perceived his own heart, that idiotic part of him, beating faster. He was too overcome to think. Sherlock was in his arms, seeking emotional support and comfort from him.

Mycroft should have ended the hug as quickly as possible, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

In any case, Sherlock pulled away soon enough, leaving the space around Mycroft more awfully empty than he would have thought possible.

“Oh, I won big this time,” Sherlock remarked.

A small white piece of thick paper was raised triumphantly in Sherlock’s hand.

Mycroft felt a surge of panic. Instantly, his hand moved to his trouser pocket, and found it devastatingly empty.

“I was only going for a wallet or keys. Anything interesting, actually. But look at my prize! Lady Smallwood’s card. I wonder why you were carrying this around?”

Furious, Mycroft glowered. “That was a foul trick, Sherlock.”

“It was a very old trick, and really, you should have known better. You’ve become very careless.”

That was true, and Mycroft knew it. He had learned throughout his career to be wary of pickpockets, but all that training looked like a joke now. Mycroft didn’t want to think about how distracted he had been by the solid feeling of Sherlock against his chest. Poor Sherlock thought Mycroft had simply been careless. He had no idea that his trick had been so successful because he had stirred a storm of emotions in his brother’s chest.

Sherlock might have been pleased to know just how much he had humiliated Mycroft with that false embrace, not that he could ever be allowed to know.

“Return that card at once,” Mycroft demanded.

“Hmm… No, I don’t think so.” With the card in hand, Sherlock started walking around the room lazily. “You work with Lady Smallwood. Have done for years, so you must know her number already. Why the card, then?”

“Don’t say any more, Sherlock.”

“It must be a number she doesn’t use for work. Her private number. You and Lady Smallwood…” Sherlock snickered as he paced. “Mixing business with pleasure, brother mine?”

“She extended an offer for drinks. I was indifferent to her offer.”

“And yet you took the card.”

“Let us speak no more of it.”

“I’ll venture a guess. No, not a guess, I never guess.” Sherlock held up the card again, and his voice quickened as it did when he was in top form. “Lady Smallwood didn’t give you this card today. These dirty edges show that it sat in your pocket for a considerable length of time, and in any case, you haven’t been to the cabinet office today, or you would be too busy or tired to pass as much time as you have with me. So you’ve been carrying it around with you for more than a day. Taking into account your isolation, which you yourself have admitted to on previous occasions, and the failure of your past relationships, which you never admitted to but was always obvious, it is probable that you are lonely and would appreciate companionship, yet you don’t think you can connect with another human being. You want to call Lady Smallwood, but you’re too scared to do it. Who’s the clever one now?”

How absurd it was, that Sherlock had been flawlessly correct up to the very end of his statements. Mycroft easily resumed his usual self-important role. “You have your moments, brother mine, but I am the clever one. Through your deduction, you revealed more about yourself than you did about me. You were so eager to delve into my faults that you missed the most obvious deduction.”

Sherlock studied the card again. His voice fell when he understood. “The name.”

“Alicia Smallwood. You and I both know Lady Smallwood’s first name is Elizabeth. Doesn’t that strike you as odd, that her card should have a different name? It struck me. That’s why I kept the card.”

“Doesn’t matter. She has more than one name. That’s hardly uncommon.”

“Still, it’s worth looking into. People like me can never be too careful.”

Sherlock stopped his pacing, and shook his head. “You wouldn’t have to hold onto the card to look into her name. You can lie all day, Mycroft, and you surely do, but I know that this card would not have been in your pocket if you weren’t thinking about calling her.”

“I’m not lonely, Sherlock. I don’t seek companionship.”

“Fine. Stay alone by yourself. Enjoy carrying this piece of paper around.” At last, Sherlock handed the card back to Mycroft. He returned to his chair and took up his violin once more.

Mycroft handled the card stoically, and took another glance at the name.

It was true that he had thought about calling his colleague. He could never be with the one he wanted, so it was only rational that he try to move on from his impossible fantasies of his beautiful brother and find a meaningful, morally acceptable relationship with a different person. Lady Smallwood was not a bad choice. She was reasonably competent and intelligent, and had proven to be trustworthy.

It wouldn't work.

Mycroft had tried something like this before, a few times in the past. It never went well. Not one person was ever an adequate alternative to Sherlock. He could try again with Lady Smallwood, and even entertain himself with hopes that her companionship would free him from Sherlock’s spell, yet Mycroft knew too well that only failure and disappointment awaited him down that road.

Grabbing his umbrella from where he had propped it up near the door, Mycroft said nothing more to his brother, and it seemed that Sherlock, plucking randomly at his violin, had nothing more to say to him, either. He didn’t ask for another hug, which Mycroft supposed he ought to be grateful for, though he was not.


	14. Wind, Water, and Ice (The Final Problem)

Breathing hard as he pumped his arms and legs, Mycroft listened to the pounding of his feet against the treadmill. Mycroft had started jogging on the exercise machine because he had wanted to clear his mind for a little while. For that reason, he had made it clear to his PA that she was not to disturb him unless it became absolutely necessary. Yet still his mind was as busy as ever. The running belt moving under him kept him constantly moving forward, but it wasn’t enough to keep his mind off the recent events at Sherrinford.

Sherrinford. That fortress of stone, bright lights, and security cameras, could not flatter itself as being one of Mycroft’s preferred destinations. There was no appeal to the oppressive atmosphere of a place that contained some of the most dangerous people in the world, and nowhere in that facility was the atmosphere more oppressive than in front of the holding cell of his little sister, Eurus Holmes.

She had killed Sherlock’s best friend when she was only five, and she had not become any less dangerous as an adult. When Mycroft saw her, he had to stay wary and vigilant. Though he was nearer to her level of brilliance than most, as shown objectively by the testing they underwent as children, he was at some risk of being manipulated by his sister.

In some ways, he was at greater risk than others. Despite all that she had done, Eurus was still Mycroft’s sister. He regretted the need to keep her a secret. He wanted her to be safe. And she could use his familial attachment to her advantage. In addition, she he had had years to study him when he was a child. She must have gleaned something she could use against him.

Perhaps if he had understood her better, he could have helped her somehow, and prevented the tragedies that she wrought. Mycroft sometimes wondered if, being cleverer than most, he had an obligation to help his sister understand human kindness and decency. That would require that Mycroft understood such things, though. If there was a way to help her, it was beyond his abilities. All he could see was that she was extremely clever, and extraordinarily dangerous.

For all these reasons, Mycroft had long kept his visits to Sherrinford to a minimum. He received his regular updates by phone, and stepped foot into the facility very infrequently.

He had never thought he would be trapped there for hours, at the mercy of his sister.

Five people had lost their lives on that day because of Eurus. Furthermore, she had subjected Sherlock, as well as John and Mycroft himself, to emotional torment. And she had ruined years of work. All that time spent protecting Sherlock from memories of Eurus’s violence and Victor’s death hardly mattered now. Because of her, Sherlock remembered the trauma of his childhood, and now he had to cope with his memories.

Mycroft knew he was partly responsibility for that terrible day. Clearly, Eurus was the one most to blame, Moriarty undoubtedly contributed his fair share, and the governor of Sherrinford made a grievous mistake by undertaking a psychiatric evaluation of Eurus against Mycroft’s explicit order; however, it had been Mycroft’s mistake to give Eurus five minutes’ time with Moriarty. He could not let himself forget that.

Mycroft was sure that he would not forget it. He was not a very forgetful person. The knowledge of his failure would stay with him.

Suddenly feeling a bit weak, Mycroft turned off the treadmill. He leaned against the handrails, trying to catch his breath.

He not only had to bear his mistake, but also the criticism of his parents, who had been very angry with him for telling them that Eurus was dead. Furthermore, there would certainly be repercussions to deal with now that Sherlock truly remembered Redbeard. He might even relapse under the strain of the trauma, and then Mycroft would have to resist holding him close and telling him that everything would be all right.

He loved his family and cared about all of them, but there were times he wished he was alone in this world. How much easier life would be without trying parents, a deadly sister, and an exquisite brother!

Maybe he should have found a new family, like Sherlock did. Indeed, Sherlock’s newfound little group had performed splendidly at Sherrinford. John Watson, the steadfast soldier, acted bravely under tremendous pressure, setting a standard that Mycroft could not reach. Then there was Gregory Lestrade, who had managed Mycroft’s ultimate rescue in a competent manner, and who had been perfectly sympathetic when he found Mycroft admittedly out of sorts in Eurus’s old cell. Furthermore, Mycroft remembered the trouble that Molly Hooper had gone through. She was due some credit for the ordeal she endured. Surely, Mycroft would not have liked to be in her place, compelled to confess his feelings for Sherlock.

The “I Love You” coffin had been one of the more memorable features of that long, painful game. Upon reading the plaque on the coffin lid, Mycroft had first thought it could represent the child Mycroft, who had loved Sherlock too much. Mycroft was not quite sure how much Eurus knew regarding the feelings of her two brothers. She had not once made reference to those feelings, and it was possible that she knew nothing of it, being ignorant in general where emotions where concerned, but then again, she could not be underestimated.

Assigning the coffin to young Mycroft would have been a cruel and fitting joke for Eurus to play. It would have been cruel and fitting because Sherlock had forgotten and buried his memories of the loving older brother of his childhood, and also because, there and then, the oldest Holmes sibling was a dead man walking.

Mycroft had been aware from the very beginning that Sherlock would have to choose between him and John. Eurus made that all too clear when she left the gun in Sherlock’s possession. Of course, Mycroft knew this meant that he would die. There was never any doubt in Mycroft’s mind that Sherlock would save John Watson. Mycroft was not well liked by his brother, which was for the best, while Sherlock was undoubtedly fond of his flatmate. Furthermore, Sherlock had vowed to protect the Watsons, or so he had told Mycroft. After failing with Mary, Sherlock could hardly allow himself to fail a second time. Third, Mycroft was largely to blame for the entire incident, and thus he naturally deserved to bear the brunt of its consequences, which should have been evident to Sherlock. For all these reasons, from the very moment they walked away from the governor’s body, Mycroft had understood that he should not expect to leave Sherrinford alive.

It would have been a waste of everybody’s time to let Sherlock struggle over the decision when the answer was obvious. To help things along, Mycroft had tried to goad Sherlock into making the clear choice, but Sherlock saw through his insincerity on this occasion. Nonetheless, Sherlock had raised the gun at Mycroft, as expected.

Mycroft had been entirely willing to give his life for Sherlock. His devotion to his brother was beyond measure, and additionally, he did not want Sherlock to lose his best friend once again because of Eurus. How much worse the trauma would be this time, if Sherlock had to take John’s life by his own hand! And of course, Mycroft did not want to see any harm come to John. Mycroft was prepared to die, and he thought he was to take his last breath in that sterile room. He had actually been a little proud of himself at that moment, since he was not always so brave.

That rare bravery was for nought. It was true that Sherlock would save John before Mycroft, but, turning the gun away from Mycroft and towards his own head, Sherlock had revealed something else, something far more shocking: he would sooner save Mycroft than himself.

Sherlock took a great risk. If he truly had remembered the governor, as he claimed, he must have remembered that the governor accomplished nothing by taking his own life. Sherlock must have been certain that the game was about himself, and that his choice would have different results, but all the same, he gambled with his life when he did not need to do so.

Even when Sherlock didn’t remember how close he and Mycroft once were, he was still willing to take that risk, so that Mycroft did not need to die. Mycroft was deeply moved by Sherlock’s decision, and at a loss to explain it. Sherlock should not have cared for his arrogant, unfeeling brother so much.

Breathing more easily than before, Mycroft stepped closer to the small table where he had placed a glass of iced water. It was cool and refreshing, although Mycroft was in no mood to appreciate its finer points. All he noted was that it was very, very cold.

Considering how cold it was, Mycroft thought, the thing was only an intelligence test away from being a full-fledged Holmes.

They were each cold, in their own way. Eurus was far above them all in the frigid air, detached from heartfelt emotions, while Sherlock was far below at the bottom of a well, trying to make sense of it all. Mycroft was somewhere in the middle, solitary in his own desolate tundra. With a wry smile, Mycroft supposed that was as good a description of the Holmes siblings as any: wind, water, and ice.

For better or worse, these three chilly individuals were linked, in one sense through their genetics, and in another, through the memories of early childhood. In fact, now that Sherlock remembered what Eurus had done, and why he was who he was…

Mycroft quickly placed his glass on the table, no longer confident in his ability to hold the object steady. A terrible possibility had occurred to him. Now that Sherlock remembered everything about Eurus and himself, he might remember everything about Mycroft, as well. With the East Wind and Deep Waters revealed for what they were, the Ice Man might not be far behind.

Carefully, Mycroft picked up the glass again. “No,” he whispered to himself, in between sips of his drink. “No, that won’t happen. Don’t be ridiculous.”

There was no reason to assume that the illusions in Sherlock’s mind were linked together so intricately. Just because Sherlock remembered the tragedy of Victor Trevor, that didn’t mean that he also had to remember his overly attached brother. Eurus had told him enough about Redbeard to revive a few specific memories, but Sherlock had heard nothing of the long nights he had spent in his brother’s arms when they were little. No, there was no need to worry. Sherlock would not be disturbed by longing or shame, the way that Mycroft was.

Reassured, for Sherlock’s sake, Mycroft ambled around the treadmill. Placing a hand on one of the handrails, he glanced out the bright window, at the calm, green world outside. The scenery reminded him of a time when he had held his little brother’s hand and walked with him outside of the old family home, speaking kind words to him in a gentle tone. That was a charming memory.

Mycroft changed his mind. He didn’t wish he were alone in this world. His parents were beginning to forgive him for keeping Eurus a secret, and to understand the burden that had long been on his shoulders. Mycroft would always be wary of Eurus, but it had to be admitted that his sister had saved countless lives with the information she had supplied to MI6 in the past in exchange for her various treats. Now that she no longer spoke, or interacted with anyone but Sherlock, it seemed reasonable to hope that she had no interest in any more unpleasant experiments, and that she would live quietly and peacefully in Sherrinford.

As for Sherlock, Mycroft could not imagine life without him, nor did he want to. Though they could never be together, Mycroft had accepted this long ago. He cherished all the hours they had spent at each other’s side as children, as well as every minute they shared exchanging clever banter as adults. Despite the distance that must remain between him and Sherlock, he still counted himself fortunate to know his brother. Mycroft was able to watch over him and play a small part in his life. Little by little, Mycroft was coming to know the people who mattered to Sherlock, and they were, he liked to think, becoming a sort of extended family to the older Holmes brother.

In any case, his little brother would always be in his heart, bringing warmth to the man of ice in ways nobody else could.

With this thought, Mycroft smiled with a soft contentment, and pulled up his phone to let his PA know that he was ready to return to work.

End~


End file.
